this taste of shadow
by Mira-Jade
Summary: When Shadow returned to Arda marred, it fell upon a land long accustomed to living beneath a veil of darkness. The light of its people was never one so easily dimmed, you see . . . A collection of ficlets and drabbles. Next up: Bilbo learns the origins of his little sword, and later, finds the courage to address the prejudices of Thorin.
1. things, once seen (Galadriel & Finarfin)

**"This Taste of Shadow"**

**Genre**:Everything**  
Rating: **K - T**  
Time Frame: **Everywhere**  
Characters: **Everyone

**Summary**: _When Shadow returned to Arda marred, it fell upon a land long accustomed to living beneath a veil of darkness. The light of its people was never one so easily dimmed, you see._ A collection of ficlets and drabbles.

**Author's Notes**: Hello once again, dear readers! This latest venture of mine is a collection of ficlets - all pieces beneath a thousand words, along with fixed-length drabbles - set within the timeframe of the _Silmarillion_. Once or twice these may dip into _The Hobbit_ and _The Lord of the Rings_, but these are primarily about the early days. I have a long list of prompts I am working from - 600 of them, to be exact, but I do not expect to reach them all ;) - all of which I am writing as warm-ups before working on my original novel this winter - so expect anyone and everything doing anything and everything.

That said, I welcome any who look to follow where these drivels lead, and I hope you enjoy my humble foray into Tolkien's truly breathtaking world as much as I am enjoying writing it.

First up, we have a two-fer set. With Finarfin and Galadriel as the main focus. Enjoy :)

**Disclaimer**: Nothing is mine, but for the words.

* * *

**Wall**

The Sea was an impassible distance between them. It was a wall he could not climb; with waves as brick and tide as mortar. And it stretched so far . . .

Though Tirion was locked by land, surrounded by golden stretches of fields and embraced by copses of green leafed trees, he imagined that he could hear the waves as they brushed upon Eastern shores beyond. He imagined that he could see the infant sun above them as it set over the straight blue horizon of Middle-earth. He imagined that he could hear the gulls in his ears; that he could feel the pulse of the tide in his heart.

_She has arrived, _the knowledge reverberated in his mind, settling in his heart. With the knowledge, his pulse quickened. He could not quell its frantic beat.

"Artanis," Arafinwë whispered his daughter's name to the wind, as if she could hear him from such a distance and knew comfort from his voice. He closed his eyes, imagining each of his sons in turn before looking up again. His children had survived the crossing, and now they walked upon a shadowed land. They walked where he could not see . . . see naught but glimpses, as intangible and substantial as mist. He could see Artanis' eyes trained unmovingly ahead, looking at the wood just past the seashore. He looked, and saw Ingoldo's smile. Angaráto as he splashed Aikanáro in the surf.

His hands fisted as he tried to seize the visions, as he tried to make them last. But it was not enough. It never was.

Time passed, much time before the atmosphere in both Tirion and Alqualondë allowed the new King of the Noldor to journey north to Oiolossë. But journey eventually he did, seeking out Ingwë's house and walking the familiar halls to the rooms his mother and sisters shared.

Centuries had passed since he was a small boy running with mischief in mind and trailing giggles behind him, and yet Arafinwë still felt small beneath the arch of Indis' stare when she rose to greet him. He bowed low and kissed the back of his mother's hand, even though she wore her crown not, and had been far from Finwë's side even before his death at the Dark One's hands. The young sun was setting beyond them, painting Indis' face with a warm golden light. There was a time when he had looked on her and saw only a beauty too great for words; a celestial beauty that seemed too ethereal to touch. Now, he could see only weariness on Indis' face. Her flesh seemed to be parchment, letting the light shine through her rather than upon her. There were times lately when she did not look quite real before his eyes. Aman had darkened around her, and she had not yet found her light again.

"They arrived," he whispered his news, taking her hand in his own once they both were seated. Indis looked not at him, but out the open windows behind him. The room had been built with a wide and open plan – designed to face the summit of the mountain and the light of the Trees with a reverence that only the Vanyar could truly understand. Now, it just let in the light of the setting sun.

"I cannot tell what horrors the Ice took from them," he admitted, and at the words, his voice ached in his throat. " . . . but they arrived. They walk upon the shores of the Hither Lands."

Over his hand, his mother's fingers played. Absently, she traced nonsense patterns over the top of bones and skin. "And yet, you ask me a question," she said at long last. Her head was tilted delicately to the side. Her pale eyes knew the answer he sought, even when they did not glance his way.

"I . . ." he swallowed. Setting about him, the new light was too warm. It was too bright. He blinked, and saw shadow. "I saw . . . I could see bits and pieces when I Looked, but only just. Once you offered to teach me your gift, and yet I scorned it . . . for what need was there of the Sight in the hallowed lands, in these lands of peace and light? And yet . . . now the light has been destroyed and created anew. Now . . ."

"Now those you love travel past where you can see," Indis finished gravely. Her eyes still searched beyond the view of her balcony; as if she could see into Mandos' dark halls and beyond.

He did not fight the twisting he felt in his lungs at her words. He had no need to. "Yes," he breathed simply. And he waited for her answer.

A heartbeat passed. Then another. When Indis squeezed his hands, the color of her eyes was darker. For the first since his father's death, she looked _real_ before him. She looked tangible enough to touch.

"I shall teach you, my son," she inclined her head in answer. Her grip about his hands was strong. "And together, we shall see what we shall see."

**.**

**.**

**Bridge**

The waves lapped gently against the rocks below.

Alone, Galadriel knelt in the long grass that grew atop the cliffs overlooking the harbor of the Grey Havens below. This close to the Sea, the song within her soul was sounding with a feverish beat, pulling her towards what she could feel in the distance, calling home. Though she yearned, she could not yet give in to it's siren's call, not with the Shadow that was still growing behind her, stretching from the East. None were beside her as she took her moment to work through her grief alone. All in her family hurt that day, the grief of sundering pulling upon their spirits as a whole, but in that moment, she preferred her solitude. She needed . . .

She took a deep breath, centering herself. Against her mind, she felt Celeborn's touch as it turned in concern, but she waved him away after assuring him that she was well. As well as she could be, at least. A matching pain bit at his own soul, and she filled their bond with warmth . . . with _peace_ as best she could.

When she looked below, she could see her husband's silver head amongst the workers milling on the docks. Celeborn was keeping their grandsons busy, she knew, not giving them a moment in which to think about their grief. Elladan and Elrohir were nothing but strife and discord in their bones with their mother's passing, and even across the distance their hate and anger tugged on her spirit with a rabid fervency. They wore their guilt as a cloak of fury, even though all had assured them that they were not to blame – even Celebrían herself, but still their hearts knew pain, and Galadriel feared . . .

When she swallowed, she did so around a stone. She looked away from her grandsons, seeking out the empty dock where Celebrían's ship had been berthed not even an hour ago. On the edge of the dock, Arwen stood unmoving at her father's side. As close to Elrond as the twins had been with their mother, she had scarce left his side since the ship had disappeared over the horizon. Galadriel reached out with her senses, but Arwen looked up first. Though her eyes were heavy with grief, she reached out with a comfort of her own before she could be given comfort in return, and Galadriel felt her heart twist as she accepted the gift her granddaughter gave. The young one was a bulwark in her family's storm, and for her, Galadriel was more grateful than words could say. At Arwen's side, Elrond had not even blinked at the interchanging of power. He noticed not of Arwen's hand around his own, nor Galadriel's searching presence at his mind. Instead, he was unblinking as he stared at the horizon beyond. Galadriel felt, and knew that he was clinging to his bond with Celebrían, unwilling to let her go until the Straight Road tore her forcibly from him.

She looked, and felt a fresh stab of pain for how her son-in-law appeared to be years older than any Elf had a right to be – for he had poured nearly the entirety of his fëa into Celebrían's soul in his desperation to heal her. He had been pulled away by force - Glorfindel and Mithrandir ending the connection only before he gave everything. Even for all of his efforts – for all of her own efforts, and Mithrandir's too – they had only been able to heal her daughter's body. Her mind . . . Celebrían's fëa was fractured and torn, and nothing but the Uttermost West and the touch of Estë and Irmo themselves would heal what was so broken.

She had sailed, and now Galadriel was alone, and she . . .

She took in a deep breath before letting it out again. Above her, the twilit sky was darkening. Varda's stars bathed the land in their light as they had since times long gone by, and upon the horizon Galadriel looked, and thought to see a light even greater than they. She could see . . .

As she had not in centuries, she opened her mind to the part of her fëa that was still bound to her parents – to Arafinwë and Eärwen, each reigning over bright Tirion in hallowed Aman. Though the Sea laid between them – pale in comparison to her own stubborn pride and blatant refusal to take the pardon the Valar offered, for she had committed no crime to warrant such a gracious forgiveness - she looked with another set of eyes. She looked with the eyes of her Sight, and saw . . .

_ . . . __Arafinwë's__ surprised gaze . . . grey-blue eyes, just like her own, blinking and widening . . . a breath held . . . her father placing down both quill and parchment so that he could grasp the connection she sought and __flame__ it higher . . .  
_  
_Artanis?_ She felt more than heard his voice whisper across her mind. Though she would admit it not, the merest touch of their minds turned all of her great strength to dust before the wind. Brokenly, she leaned into his mental presence like a sapling finding its roots in a storm. She did not realize the weight of her own grief until opening herself up to her father's soul, and now . . .

She felt warmth and love consume her as Arafinwë filled her with a peace of spirit – and all of her fears about her parent's anger, their anger and their _disappointment,_ faded when she felt love instead. When she felt a concern so strong that it rippled across her soul, even across so great a distance.

_Child?_ he whispered, as if fearful of her answer, _What is it? What __is this burden that swallows you__? _She could feel him search against her mind, a lifetime of dark deeds and even darker hours having taught him to expect the worst.

"Atar," she whispered her reply to the wind. Her voice was a choked, hoarse sound from her mouth. "What I treasure most in this world comes to you, and I cannot yet follow where she goes. I would ask . . . nay, I would _beg_ of you to . . ."

_Cherish her_, she let her spirit ask what her mouth could not say. _Give her a home w__h__il__e__ she is sundered from all __that__ she has loved __and held dear__ . . . __Give her l__ove until . . ._

. . . _u__ntil I too can return home_, she finally admitted the desire of her heart in her mind, and she felt her father turn as such a light in her mind. Such a warmth.

When she opened her eyes, the connection broken, she looked to the West again. This time, she did not have to strain her eyes to see. Aman was as a light on the horizon; the harkening of a promise against the backdrop of sky and sea. She looked, and she could feel the light as it grew even warmer still.

_Not yet_, she thought as she turned from the song of the Sea. But someday, she knew . . . someday soon.

* * *

**Handy Dandy Tolkien Terms:**  
**  
Arafinwë: **Finarfin**  
Artanis: **Galadriel**  
Ingoldo: **Finrod**  
Aikanáro: **Aegnor**  
Angaráto: **Angrod  
**Mithrandir**: Gandalf  
**Fëa**: Quenya for 'soul'.  
**Oiolossë: **The Vanyar's name for Taniquetil

And if I missed anything, please let me know. :)


	2. a stone upon stones (Fingon & Maedhros)

**Author's Note: **There is no fixed length to this one. Just Fingon and Maedhros angst. :)

* * *

**"A Stone Upon Stones"  
**

**.**

**.**

**Architect**

As with every building, there was a first stone laid. One, and then the next.

"You know the sword," Findekáno said one afternoon. It was not a question, but rather an observation spoken as quiet fact. His cousin was a quiet child as a whole, his wide eyes taking in everything around him in silence before speaking with soft certainty. What had at first been an oddity when compared to his family of live flames was now a comfort to Maitimo. Bemused, he looked at the younger boy, a red brow raised in a question of his own.

"There is no need to learn such a skill in blissful Aman," he replied neutrally. At his answer, Findekáno played absently with the quill in his hands. His letters were already neat and precise across the parchment, and sooner than he would like, Maitimo knew that he would have nothing more he could teach him.

"But your father teaches you regardless?" Findekáno pressed.

"Some are not as content with the stillness of these lands as others," Maitimo replied evenly. Even though not expressly forbidden, many looked on the art of steel with critical eyes. But his answer was only half where the other trusted the whole from him. He found that he did not care for the not-truth on his lips. "Yes," he answered frankly. "My father has taught me the sword."

"My Atar," Findekáno was wont to speak even more softly when his words were about his family. Maitimo looked, and wondered how the fire of Finwë can be as smoke in the eyes of the child before him. "My Atar says that such skills are needless. That they are an insult to the peace that the Valar provide."

"And what do you think?" Maitimo asked carefully. Findekáno pressed the tip of his quill to his mouth as he considered his reply.

"I think that my father keeps one of grandfather's swords above his desk; one from the Great Journey, stained with the blood of Dark Lord's creatures in the earliest days. I think that he keeps it there to remember. I know too, that he practices when none can see. And I . . ."

Maitimo waited, expectant. He knew what the child would ask next, and for some reason, the request made him uneasy. Three brothers already, and his parent's intent on another, and he had helped them all wrap small hands around sword hilts. And yet . . .

"Will you teach me?" Findekáno finally asked. His words were frank and abrupt, the hesitation gone from his voice once his decision was made. He stared, and looked the older boy squarely in the eye as he put his longing out, stark and whole between them. Maitimo looked, and imagined that he could see, _there_ . . .

Finwë's fire, he thought, even as he nodded. "Yes, Káno," his reply was softer than he would have wished it to be. "I will teach you."

.

.

Findekáno bruised. It is the way of the sword - of life, in truth - and yet Maitimo watched the child pull himself up from the dust each and every time he was knocked down with pride in the marrow of his bones. With affection in the soft places about his heart.

Later, when the battle-fever had worn down to nothing, and each pain was felt for what it truly was, he sought the boy out to make sure that none of his wounds had settled too deeply.

"It will heal," he gave his diagnosis as the boy picked at the new calluses he was developing on the palms of his hands. "For now, each mark will show you where a lesson was learned. A stone here," he touched a scrape on Findekáno's cheek, "and a stone here," next he touched a bruise on his arm, purple and angry. "And you shall have a tower before you in no time at all."

"For now," Findekáno said, biting his tongue, "It just hurts."

Maitimo could not help himself. He smiled. "Aye, for now it hurts." He pressed playfully at the bruise, and the child made a face before swatting his hand away. "But that too will build a wall of its own."

.

.

He felt like a strong tower torn asunder in those first few months after being proclaimed strong enough to move from bed. He was as a ruin of a fortress, with once strong stones turned to dust and its mortar to ash on the wind. The foundation was still there – his body remembered how to move, how to fight, but it was missing a piece now. It was no longer whole.

He had to remember to fight with his left hand rather than his right hand now. He could not block and give a blow at once now; it is one and then the other. He could not use two hands to lend weight to his thrusts. His strength had to come from his arm and shoulder now, and the difference was almost too much. His body was a shell of his former strength, the loss of his hand aside. He had gone too long without food and water and movement during his imprisonment. White lines criss-crossed his skin, telling tales of Morgoth's torments – each one more and more creative than the last when he refused to give the Dark One the reaction he sought. His body was a map of pain and ruin, and there were times when he did not care to bring it into the light of day.

Sometimes, he could only think that it would have been easier if Fingon had put his sword through his heart, rather than through the skin and bone of his hand. Sometimes, he thought . . .

But Maedhros had no time to think now, because Fingon was attacking again, stepping to the left but striking from the right - and like a fool he fell for it. Instead of cutting with the blade, Fingon slapped his shoulder with the flat of his sword. He did not pull his strength, and Maedhros stumbled before taking a knee on the ground, his balance lost.

"Even Idril could have blocked that – and that is an insult to the Lady," Fingon raised a dark brow in disapproval. He circled his cousin's spot on the ground, casting shadows as he went. "Turgon's daughter is a terribly fast little thing, and she delights in reminding all of it."

"I taught you that same feint those long years ago," Maedhros muttered darkly. "My body remembers, but it is slow to answer as I bid." His breath worked too quickly to give air to his lungs. His blood pounded not from the fight, but from fatigue. Maedhros felt his top lip draw back from his teeth, disgusted as he was with himself.

Finwë's fire as he was, and all that flame had done was to keep him just barely amongst the living. He had survived, and yet, what right did he even have to that? What right did he have to _endure_ when so many others had . . .

. . . but no. He squeezed his eyes closed, forcing his heart to calm. The troublesome organ raced in his chest, and its pulse was wearying.

A shadow fell before him as Fingon came to a stop. The sunlight glittered off the lake behind them; Maedhros could see the light as bright splashes of colour behind the dark of his eyes. For a moment, Fingon blocked the sun, and Maedhros opened his eyes to see that the other had knelt in front of him. There was concern in his eyes – his pale grey eyes, the same as his own – and Maedhros looked away. As his eyes moved down, he caught glimpse of the gold braided into his hair. Fingon had not worn it as such when he had rescued him from Thangorodrim, that much Maedhros remembered. But now . . .

He swallowed, and his throat ached. He did not deserve such a token, he thought distantly. Such a . . .

"A stone here," Fingon whispered, and then Maedhros felt his cousin's callused fingertips as they traced the hollow line of his cheek, much too thin as it was. "And then a stone here," Fingon's sword hand trailed a gentle caress around the ruined stump of his right arm. It was the first time anyone beyond a healer had touched him so – even Maedhros ignored that new part of his body with a childish determination, as if by pretending that it did not exist, he could make it so. The newly grown nerve endings trembled, unused to the sensation of touch. "And soon," Fingon let his hand fall away, "a tower shall be built."

A moment passed. Maedhros swallowed, looking between the light on the lake and the gold twinkling teasingly in the black braids before him. He looked anywhere but Fingon's eyes.

"Valiant, they call you," Maedhros finally said. His words were soft, given beneath his breath. "Better had you taken the title of Wise instead."

"There are others better suited to the sprouting of inspired phrases," Fingon gave. Maedhros could hear the smile in his voice as he rose gracefully to his feet. "Better am I with repeating things once heard."

Slowly, Maedhros followed Fingon's lead. He picked up his sword once more, the muscles in his arm weak as he made a fist of his fingers about the hilt. But they were strengthening. The bones there ached, but it was an ache that healed. It was an ache that promised growth, if he let it.

"Now then, Russandol," Fingon saluted him, a playful ease to his movements as his steel caught the sun. "About that tower . . ."

* * *

**Handy Dandy Tolkien Terms:**

**Findekáno**: Fingon  
**Maitimo**: Maedhros  
**Russandol**: An endearment meaning 'copper-top'. Another name for Maedhros.


	3. once lost (Aredhel & Fingon)

**"****once lost" **

**.**

**.**

**Different**

She had not known that it was possible to be this cold.

Before the Helcaraxë, she had seen snow, but only ever on the glittering white slopes of Taniquetil. She remembered playing in her great-uncle Ingwë's house as a child, lying on the ground and creating winged creatures with her arms and legs before rising to pelt her brothers with balls of the cold white powder. She remembered how Turukáno's face would turn in mock annoyance as he brushed his clothes dry; how Findekáno would scowl in mock outrage before returning her attacks with those of his own - pelting her retreating back with snowballs before dropping her into the snowbank on the side of the path, screaming out her laughter while their elders watched them with smiles on their faces.

Now, Irissë could not remember how she had ever been delighted by the cold. Now she only knew the tightness of her stomach, groaning in hunger and in thirst. Her skin stung from where it was stretched across her bones, made thin and brittle where it was exposed to the cold around her. She could not feel her fingers or her toes, but she was fortunate that she had not yet developed the bite of frost that had already taken so much from so many. She was tired, she was weary; but she did not fall in her path as others walked over her still form, leaving her to freeze in their wake. Her blood still beat through her veins, and though its pulse was slow, it was enough to let her know that she was alive. She was _alive_. Alive as . . .

She swallowed, looking ahead to where Turukáno's gait was slow and stunned at the head of their host. At his side, even cheerful Itarillë was quiet, her small and pale face drawn with her grief. Though only a child, the Ice had affected her the least – so much so that their followers had taken to calling her Silver-foot for the ease of her passing over the frozen wasteland around them. And yet, her niece had scarce spoken two words together since her mother's death. Her bright blue eyes were haunted and numb – much too young for the tender count of her years.

Turukáno had not wanted to come, Irissë remembered, feeling guilt rise up in her throat for own role in persuading him. He had been pressured by all; and his wife and daughter had refused to be left behind when he made the decision to follow his family. Such courage was a rarity - even her own mother had forsaken the journey at her father's side, and Anairë was far from the only one to let go both husband and child. But Turukáno had pushed aside his misgivings, and now Elenwë was gone - taken by the restless ocean beneath the endless Ice all around them. Turukáno walked as one numb, and Írissë could not imagine the light ever returning to her brother's eyes as it had been before.

Irissë fisted her fingers, and found that her anger kept her stride from faltering. Anger kept her face warm, kept feeling to the tips of her fingers.

_Tyelkormo_, she hissed within the confines of her mind. _When I cross this desolate place, so help me . . ._

Her thoughts were interrupted when a soft step crunched on the snow next to her. She glanced to the side, having energy for little else, and then only blinking her greeting to Findekáno. For a moment, she let her gaze linger, taking in the tight set of her eldest brother's mouth, the stone line of his jaw, before turning her gaze back ahead. She trained her eyes on an unseen place on the horizon, and imagined she could see the far shore they grappled to reach.

She counted out five heartbeats, and then ten, before glancing at her brother again. Something was wrong . . . something was different, but she could not put her finger on precisely what the difference was. He had been quiet since Elenwë's death, but there was a dark cast to his eyes as he stared unblinking at the never-ending stretch of the Ice ahead. He muttered beneath his breath at times, as if rehersing what he would say if he ever . . . She closed her eyes, unable to complete her thought. She knew that look in his eyes - for it was the same look she held in her own. For they were the only ones amongst both Nolofinwë and Arafinwë's children to love . . .

Again the thought rest, incomplete within her mind.

After thirty heartbeats, she realized what was missing from him. The difference was so stark that she stopped, letting the crowd of bodies shoulder past her, all going on by with hardly a glance. Some muttered under their breath as they walked. Some moaned. Far in the back of their group, one or two voices tried to rise in song in defiance to the chill in the air. They never made it further than a verse before faltering.

Findekáno stopped with her, a brow raised in question. She opened her mouth once, then twice, before shutting it. She could hear the cold click of her teeth as they snapped together.

"What is it, Irissë?" Findekáno asked. Even his strong voice was a whisper on the air. His breath frosted between them.

Irissë hugged her arms closer to her body. Her eyes fixed upon the black braids that peeked out from the fur lined hood of his cloak. Their color was blank and dull. Snowflakes frosted the plaits with a layer of ice, but beneath . . .

"Your gold is gone," she said frankly. Even those few words took all of her effort to speak. It was a great task - flexing her throat and passing the breath of her lungs out as words. She pressed her fingers together, seeking the warmth of skin on skin.

"My hands are numb," Findekáno's explanation was simple and frank, but the delay before his answer was too long – even when attributed to the cold. She watched, and saw the way he flinched, he never one to hide even the barest of his emotions from those he was close with. "I could not manage the plaiting," he felt the need to elaborate. "And so I did not bother."

Her brother had been a youth nearly grown at the time of her birth. As long as Irissë could remember, Findekáno had been close in friendship with Maitimo, son of Fëanáro – too close, some would say – but her brother's friendship with their half-cousin was something she had always known and accepted for what it was. It was something she could imagine no differently. She had been young, very young, at the time, but she still remembered coming across the two in the gardens behind her grandfather's home in Tirion. She remembered staring, entranced by the red, _red_ colour of Maitimo's hair, like Laurelin when her light fell at night to set the horizon aflame. She remembered wondering how the colour could grow from the head of any Elf, even as Maitimo flicked one of her brother's braids, fingering the golden thread that Findekáno had entwined there earlier.

"I had only spoken in jest," Maitimo said, but she could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke.

Her brother had shrugged, pleased with the reaction he gained, and at the memory she tried to remember the last time Findekáno had looked so at peace. So at ease. When had last he looked so . . . content in his own skin? She tried to remember, but could only remember the Ice.

Now the braids were barren and black before her, and she felt . . . empty at the loss. _Tyelkormo_, she thought again, but this time his name was as a sigh. This time it was edged in grief. _Why?_ she wondered, but even her thoughts were as whispers.

She needed to understand, she reflected numbly. She needed to _know_ . . .

She would cross this Ice if it was the last thing she did, she swore to herself. She would cross the Ice and then stare the other straight in the eye and demand her answer of him. She would take it from his _flesh_, if need be, but until then . . .

"When we stop tonight I will help you, if you would like," she offered. She meant for the words to come out strong, but they were only tired. Tired, and hollow.

"Do not worry yourself," Findekáno tried to smile, but the motion was forced. Mouths could not make such shapes on the Helcaraxë, she knew. "I have no need of such frivolities here."

"When we reach the other side, then?" she asked, taking her hands from their warm cocoon inside of her cloak to hold his – for warmth, she told herself. For neither of them truly needed the comfort. To ache would be to give _them_ a victory, and she could not . . . she _would_ not . . .

"Perhaps then, sister," Findekáno whispered, but the words were forced to her ears. "Perhaps."

* * *

**Handy Dandy Tolkien Terms:**

**Iressë**: Aredhel  
**Itarillë**: Idril  
**Turukáno**: Turgon  
**Findekáno**: Fingon  
**Maitimo**: Maedhros  
**Tyelkormo**: Celegorm  
**Nolofinwë**: Fingolfin  
**Arafinwë:** Finarfin  
**Fëanáro**: Fëanor  
**Laurelin**: The Tree that was the 'sun'. Telperion, the second Tree, was the 'moon'.


	4. a song of enchantment (ThingolMelian)

**Author's Notes: **These are all drabbles, a hundred words each, with a Thingol/Melian focus. :)

* * *

**"the song enchantments sing"**

**_._**

**_._**

**Baby**

She was a daughter of time's beginning, and he but a sapling to the great oak tree of her days. And yet he _listened _like no other, letting her enchantments snare in his bones, in his very heart, the long years of the world passing them by until a whispered command said: _you must let him go._

Melian released her king, but found that she could not release herself . . . and so, when she gave him back his spirit, she gave up her own for a body of flesh and bone - vowing never to be parted from him until time's end.

**.**

**.**

**Child**

Her daughter's birth took every last bit of strength from her, leaving her weary - for while the Valar had allowed such a union, they had blessed it not, and such a birth was unprecedented. Within her fortress of flesh, her spirit ached, even as her heart sang for Lúthien's arrival.

"She is not a son," Melian said, grieved for knowing that she would not be able to bear a heir to her husband's throne.

"But she is perfect," Thingol breathed, near reverent as he held his daughter for the first - their child of heaven and earth. "I could of hoped for nothing more."

**.**

**.**

**Teenager**

Lúthien grew to a beauty unmatched - even though one would not recognize her for the mud in her hair, the scratches on her face, lost as she had been by Doriath's border. She was returned safe and sound, full of questions and curiosity for the world beyond, but the whole encounter threw Thingol's heart into a fright - leaving Melian to sooth his fears.

"What are you going to do when the time comes to let her go - lock her in a tower?" Melian asked, trying to jest.

"If I have to," he answered, but his smile failed to reach his eyes.

**.**

**.**

**Adult**

Her years passed; her spirit grew into her body.

Her father's winds called to her from the West, and her mother's stars glittered at night, ever harkening her home. Melian sung, but no longer could she _become_ that song with her body of flesh so surrounding her. Instead, she spent her days teaching her daughter the secrets of the Maiar. She whispered, and Lúthien learned, and Thingol watched them both with a sad smile touching upon his mouth – the look of one who had long kept the unkeepable.

"Do you ever miss it?" he whispered that night. "Being more?"

**.**

**.**

**Elderly**

Elu's mind was closed to her. He feared her answer, she realized. For a moment, neither breathed.

She hesitated, remembering the peace of Lórien's gardens and the unsurpassed glory of Ilúvatar's music. But then she thought of the touch of flesh on flesh – the sweet thrill of her hand in his and the warmth of her daughter's embrace. She thought of loving, and being loved . . .

. . . how could the glory of Valinor ever compare?

_Until the end of time – all of my days_, she whispered against his mind. _I promised, remember?_

Aloud, she answered, "What could be more than this?"


	5. between bones (Elrond & Elros)

**Author's Notes: **Early Second Age bittersweet angst/fluff with Elrond and Elros. There is no fixed length for this one. There was supposed to be, but then my muse decided that she had words on the subject. You know how that goes. ;)

* * *

**"like gaps between bones"**

**.**

**.**

**Alike**

The markets of Armenelos bustled in the mid-day sun. Though they were some leagues away from the coast, the land locked city still seemed to smell of salt and sea-wind, as all of Númenor did. Alongside the scent of brine, the aroma of spices and roasting chestnuts rose from the stalls they passed, entreating the senses as much as the bright colors and exotic wears vied to do. The shops held everything from metal-craft and wooden toys to seeds from the exotic Isle of Tol Eressëa and that season's yield from the fields. The King's City was all graceful white buildings and spiraling mosaics of colored glass, the architecture designed to capture the brilliance of the sunlight and the never ending stretch of seashore surrounding the Island-kingdom.

Númenor truly was a gift to its people, the sons of Men made mighty as they stood up as a nation, great and strong, for the first time in their history. It was . . . pride he felt for his brother's accomplishments. All of Elrond's misgivings about his twin's choices were selfish in nature, and so, he tried not to think of them often. Instead, he pushed aside his darker thoughts and let his brother show to him the changes that had been made since the last time he had visited. Elros was all too happy to shirk aside his crown for the day in order to walk the city streets in simple garb – the sight common enough that many bowed and greeted their sire as he walked by with the practice of long ease. Elros had always been quick to smile; always ready to share both his humor and his warmth, and his people responded with love and admiration.

While he and his brother traveled at a sedate pace, Elros' youngest two children ran through the streets with quick and eager steps, ducking into shops and dancing between the lumbering carts while trailing laughter in their wake. Vardimir, the eldest, trailed some steps behind them, his nose pressed in the pages of a book, even as he walked. Nearly sixteen summers old, a miniature replica of his father with his straight black hair and pale grey eyes, Vardimir was set apart in look from the crowd of Men around him, moving with an easy grace reminiscent of his father's once-people. The two younger boys, Manwendil and Atanalcar, took after their mother in look with their curling brown hair and sea-blue eyes. Each child was quick and bright, painfully mortal with their marching steps and eager eyes.

"See, it is as I told you in my letters," Elros clapped him on the shoulder when his stare once again turned back to Vardimir. "He is like you to the point of being uncanny, is he not?"

"I was not always that . . . preoccupied," Elrond protested as Vardimir nearly walked into a stall selling melons before he realized the obstacle in his path. But his protest was half-hearted, at best.

Elros snorted. "If I had a coin for every time I kept you from walking into a wall while you were 'not preoccupied', the stores of Númenor would be double what they are now."

Elrond raised a brow, but did not bother countering the other when he spoke the truth. He had brought with him a whole chest of tomes and scrolls from Gil-galad's library in Lindon, and Vardimir's eyes had turned alight at the gift, as if he had been giving a chest of precious stones instead. The youth had wasted no time before turning through the collection with reverent fingers, looking through one book and then on to another, unable to decide which one to look through first.

While Elrond only needed to bring the written word to earn the affection of his eldest nephew, the younger boys had not even allowed him to make it off of the dock before asking him for stories. _T__ell us again, __what you saw when__ the Blessed Mariner felled the Black Dragon from his ship in the sky . . . . __Tell us again, how Gil-galad the King spoke to Ulmo himself when your ship was caught in the __Oss__ë__-__storm off of __the Bay of __Balar . . . __Tell us again, how Maedhros the One-handed slew two __legions__ of Morgoth's Orcs to recover you and Ada from their clutches __when Amon Ereb was taken_ . . . _Again, again_, _again!_ they asked with laughing young voices, even as Elros furrowed his brow and protested that _he_ had told them the same stories time and again and they had never once clamored for repeats.

The little ones laughed as they fell into step with their older brother again. Each one tugged on one of Vardimir's sleeves to get his attention – rapidly waving their small hands as they told their sibling about what exciting ware had caught their eyes. Patiently, Vardimir looked away from his book to pay attention to his brothers' words, but his eyes turned back as soon as the children found something else in the market to ooh and ahh over.

"We are praying for a daughter next," Elros said as he watched his sons interact. "Azrë has told me in no uncertain terms that this will be the last child we have, and as dearly as I love my sons . . . A daughter, with black hair and her mother's blue eyes . . . can you imagine anything better than that? Perhaps I am too pointed in my prayers, but the Valar can be gracious at times, and so I intend to be as specific as possible so that nothing is left to chance."

Elrond nodded, trying not to give away how surreal the whole interaction was to him. He was still shy of his second century – little more than a child grown in the eyes of the Elves, and here his brother was, the same age as he, a King of Men and a husband of many years - talking about his fourth child, at that. _F__our_, such a thing was almost unheard of amongst Elvenkind . . . _his_ kind, Elrond had to remind himself, for Elros was of Men now, and time was moving much too fast through his mortal years. Time raced by, and he . . .

_T__ell us again, how Maedhros the One-handed saved you and our great-great-grandfather from two whole legions of Morgoth's Orcs!_ Elrond had a flash of premonition, and for a moment, it hurt to breathe. A plunge from a cliffside and a Straight Road into the West? A fiery chasm and an Oath unbreakable? A choice of mortal-doom? It made no difference either way - all things faded and all connections proved to be for naught for the end, he knew. He told himself that he was fortunate to learn these lessons young, and yet, even for each lesson learned, he still did not quite know how to harden his heart. For he loved Vardimir dearly - loved him even though someday he too would lie down in the ever-sleep of Men. Someday all too soon. With certainty, Elrond knew that he would love each and every one of his brother's descendants as they lived and died, over and over and _over_ again . . . no matter the distance of years and the sea itself between them.

He swallowed, and tasted the bite of brine on the air.

"You look as if you have seen a ghost," Elros said when the silence between them stretched. They had paused in the shade of a grocer's stall, Vardimir coming to a stop a few steps away as he flipped to the next page in his book.

Elrond looked over at his twin, trying to assure the other that all was well . . . but he found that he could only see the streak of grey at Elros' temple, the laugh lines that crinkled the corners of his eyes. The changes were subtle, but they were enough. They were as thieves, saying: _this is __how __he is__ mortal. __This is how __he __shall__ age. __This is how __he we__ll die - die much too soon __while you live on. On and on __and on __. . ._

"Ah, these," Elros realized where his gaze had fallen. He pushed up at his wrinkles with an exaggerated show of self-consciousness, his mouth quirking up in a rueful grin. "I know, they are rather unbecoming when compared to the ever-young faces you are used to. And yet, we still do not look so very different. Someday you shall come to visit, and they will mistake you for my son rather than confusing you with me - but, if we are _very_ clever, perhaps we can fool them even still . . ."

Elrond knew that tone of voice, knew that it promised mischief with its ever syllable, but he was still caught unprepared when Elros reached into an open sack of flour and took out a handful. Unceremoniously, he reached over to smear the white powder in his hair, turning the black color there as 'grey' as his own would someday be.

"There," Elros said, smiling in triumph as he patted his hands together to clean them of the flour. "We look alike, once again."

Elrond blinked, first in shock, and then in amusement as he tried to brush away as much as the flour as he could. He only succeeded on getting the flour on the shoulders of his tunic. "Indeed, the resemblance is now uncanny," Elrond responded in a level tone, even as he sought out what he needed further on in the grocer's stall. Elros saw what he did the same as he, and held up his hands in protest.

"Ah, I am _sorry_ -" Elros tried to dodge, but he was not quick enough as Elrond picked up a jar of squid ink and dumped it over his twin's head without blinking.

"There," Elrond said smartly. "_Now_ we look alike."

Elros scowled mightily, even as he brushed his wet bangs back from his face. "Ai, that was unkind. At least _you_ do not smell like _fish_ now," he complained. "Squid ink, really?"

"And the great sea-faring king protests a kindred spirit from the deep?" Elrond pretended to be bewildered by the idea. "I rather thought you liked the scent of fish, brother."

Elros' glower only darkened, and he stepped forward dangerously – his eyes looking for what else he could use in the shop, before a voice from behind stopped him.

"Ai! You little Orc!" came Vardimir's surprised exclamation. "Adar! Manwendil poured cocoa powder on my book!"

Elros looked over, eyes wide in surprise, even as Manwendil sheepishly put the empty jar of cocoa powder down. "He has hair like ours now," the younger boy said sheepishly as Atanalcar laughed gleefully beside him. The youngest boy's hair was white with flour too – and it clouded on the air around him as he hunched over with his giggles. Vardimir was not as amused as he tried to wipe off the books pages – his siblings were not tall enough to pour the powder on his head, and throwing the cocoa up had just splattered his face and the book in his hands with the brown dust.

Elros' face made an odd contortion as he tried to keep from smiling, and failed. He could not keep his face stern as he choked on his laughter. Next, he tried to hide his look behind his hand. He made a face when he realized that his hands too were covered in the squid ink, and doing so brought the smell right to his nose. Of course, that just had him laughing harder. Elrond tried to school his face into impassiveness, but doubted that he was successful – the flour in his hair certainly bellied any effort he made anyhow.

"Aye," Elros scolded halfheartedly. "Next time, do not as I do, young ones – it shall only land you in mischief otherwise. Your mother will have cross words with us all when we return home now."

"Because you are in-cor-i-gable?" little Atanalcar chirped, the flour on his hair clouding on the air as he bounced on his feet with the syllables.

"Incorrigible," Vardimir repeated slowly for his brother, but a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth as he worked for the bigger word for the young one.

"Yes! Incorrigible," Atanalcar exclaimed. "Thank-you."

Elros scowled, even as he turned to the amused shop-keeper to pay for the mess they had made. "Aye, _incorrigible_ – it sounds like something she would say." But his feigned annoyance only lasted until he reached down to pick up Atanalcar as they turned from the shop.

"You smell like fish, Ada," the little boy crinkled his nose, and at that, Elrond could not help himself. He laughed. He laughed and laughed and _laughed_ - laughed as he had not in too long a time, Elros glaring mightily at him all the while.

"Yes, yes; I hope you are amused," Elros muttered. "I shall bear your derision with dignity."

Elrond fell into step next to his twin as they turned back towards the palace. He clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I shall miss these moments, brother," he said, with all seriousness in his voice. The words were a truth, rather than a grief, and Elros' smiled sadly upon hearing them.

"Then we must endeavor to have as many such moments as possible in the time we have, no?" Elros said, smiling even underneath the weight of his mortal-doom.

"I do believe," Elrond said, willing to believe the words in his heart even as he spoke them from his mouth, "that there is wisdom in that."


	6. to hold the sun (Finarfin & Fëanor)

**Author's Notes**: Triple drabble. Exactly 300 words. :) 

* * *

**"to hold the sun"**

**.**

**.**

**Loyalty**

Visits from Fëanáro to Tirion were few, but Arafinwë awaited each one eagerly. This time, he carefully watched the way their father embraced his eldest son when he arrived - watched as Fëanáro stiffly suffered through the affection before melting into Finwë's embrace as if he had no bones, his eyes glittering like a fire without kindle. The knuckles of his hands were white as they curved into their father's robes, if but for a moment, reminding Arafinwë of the way he himself would cling to his father after a black dream in the night.

Sometimes, it was as though his brother was a flame, unable to be caught by hands lest one was burnt in return. Later, Arafinwë summoned his courage and carefully copied his Atar move for move, imagining that he tried to catch a ray of light in his hands as he wrapped his small arms around his brother's legs as best he could. His heart was full as he thought that maybe _this time_ -

- but Fëanáro only reached down to gently pry his fingers away. To Arafinwë, the look in his eyes was no suffocating flame then, but rather a shadow, tired and cold.

Arafinwë looked at his brother's retreating back, unsure how to define the queasy sort of hurt he felt inside, like a wound left open to reveal bone beneath.

"Silly Arafinwë," Nolofinwë came up from behind him, having watched the whole exchange. "You know that Fëanáro lets none but Atar touch him."

"But he's _our_ brother," Arafinwë protested, confused.

"He is_ Atar's_ son," Nolofinwë corrected, "And that is the only tie to this family he will let touch his heart."

"But why?" Arafinwë asked in bewilderment, unable to understand.

Nolofinwë's mouth made a sad line. "Loyalty," he answered, but when pressed he would say no more.

* * *

**Arafinwë**: Finarfin  
**Nolofinwë**: Fingolfin  
**Fëanáro**: Fëanor


	7. in sickness, in health (BerenLúthien)

**Author's Notes: **Beren/Lúthien, free-write. :)**  
**

* * *

**"in sickness, in health"**

**.**

**.**

**Catch**

It came upon her slowly, like a whisper of the wind before the rains came.

The cold season came for the first time since their coming to dwell in Tol Galen. She sang as she passed through the woods; but no longer did her voice have the power to turn the snows to melt, to turn the sleeping winter-trees towards a blossoming of spring flowers. Her voice was clear and lovely, and somewhere above her a bird trilled in reply to her song, but that was all. She trailed her hand over the trunks of the trees as she walked, and imagined that she could feel their great branches turn towards her. But no longer did they dance. No longer did they bow.

She had to wear boots and gloves in deference to the cold of the season, even as mild as it was. The first time she had felt the chill in the air, she had blinked, trying to decipher what the sensation she felt was. She had only ever been cold in the halls of dark Angband before. She had known the chill of spirit that came from the breath of Mandos, but this . . .

This was mortal, she realized, this was natural in her new body. And so her dresses became thicker in reply. She wore fur lined cloaks and heavy woven wool instead of the light Elvish weaves she still had from home. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh when she walked outdoors, and her breath frosted on the air as it turned colder.

She woke one morning to find that her eyes were warm. Her skin felt flushed and her nose ran – all terribly inconvenient symptoms that bloomed into a full blown sickness by the end of the day, with her stomach angry at her every breath and her body burning as with fire.

This was . . .

"A cold," Beren explained simply, dabbing at her brow with a cool cloth. "They come often at the start of the winter season, but you should be well within a day or two."

How terribly . . .

"It's a curse of Men," Beren said softly. "One of the new perks of the body you wear."

Lúthien made a tired noise in the back of her throat, trying to hide just how horrible she felt from her husband. Beren still came to guilt over the smallest of things when it came to her and her new fate, and she had no wish to cause him pain now - not when she had naught of the strength to talk him out of his doubts and fears. The sheets stuck to her sweating skin as she moved. Her throat felt like tree bark as it scrapped against branches.

"It is not . . . too trying," she managed to croak her words out. Her voice sounded like her throat felt. She narrowed her eyes at the sound, vexed.

"Oh?" Beren raised a brow. "Then Mandos was kind to you," he said, humor peeking into his voice. "For it is terribly inconvenient for the rest of us."

She snorted, wishing that she had the energy to swat at his arm. Instead, her fingers tightened in the sheets.

"I daresay that this is a part that will not make it to the songs," Beren said as he stirred a combination of herbs into a kettle of boiling water. She watched him with interest as he did so – for every malady Mankind had to face, they had a dozen solutions and more. It was something that fascinated her – the perseverance of Men, the _resolve_ . . .

She tried to hold on to that same resolve in her own bones. She tried to make it her own.

"There are no lovely words for a minstrel to describe this," she agreed. "I know not what their lyric would be."

"Oh, I don't know," Beren said easily, trying to distract her from just how _terrible_ she felt. "You can rhyme 'snot' with 'mortal lot', and 'heal' with 'unflinching zeal'."

"Please," her laughter came out as a raw sound from her throat. "Even the trees have ears – do not give them ideas."

"No? I shall have to think of something better then," Beren teased. With only one hand, his motions were careful as he stirred honey into her cup, and then handed her the mug of tea. She took it with gratitude, taking note of the herbs he used within, and resolving to ask him about it later. She wished to be prepared next time.

A moment passed between them. He dipped the cloth in cool water again and dabbed it at her forehead, his dark blue eyes soft with feeling – even with her nose red and her hair a tangled mess about her head. She saw a familiar curtain fall there, and before it could descend, she said, "I have been ill before." There was something like pride in her voice with the statement.

"Oh?" Beren raised a brow.

"Indeed I have," she coughed into her hand. "Daeron and I were young, very young, but thought ourselves to be quite grown up – so grown up that we stole a bottle of wine at the feast that welcomed Anor to the sky . . . Thranduil and Celeborn found us, and Thranduil took it upon himself to teach us a lesson about spirits that were stronger than us."

Beren covered a hand before his mouth, seeing where her story was going, but waiting for her to tell it.

"He drank us under the table," Lúthien revealed, making a face at the memory. "Celeborn helped me back to my rooms later, and Mother came with a potion that night so that Father would not know the trouble I got myself into . . . but it was a good lesson. I never abused the vine again."

Beren had a glass of what the Elves called _wine_ once while in Menegroth – at the feast that celebrated their wedding, before realizing that his idea of wine and the Doriathrim's idea of wine varied greatly. Even half of that one glass had left him unsteady on his feet, his vision blurry – so he could only imagine what anything more than that would do, even to one of Elven blood.

"This is not much different," Lúthien said, a note of stubbornness to her voice as she spoke. "Not much different at all."

"Again," Beren stroked a soothing hand through her hair as he spoke. "Mandos was kind to you."

Her attempt at laughter turned into a cough, once again. She coughed into her hand, waiting for her body's traitorous reaction to be done. She was exhausted after, and leaned back against her pillow with a sigh.

"You should try to sleep now," Beren said as he took the empty mug from her. "Sleep helps the sickness pass faster."

Whatever he had put into the tea was making her tired, she thought. Her eyes felt heavy; her limbs like stone. What a surprise that had been in those first days, discovering just how much sleep a mortal body needed, even when they had too few of years to spend so much time in unwakefulness . . .

She made a noise in the back of her throat that was agreement, and felt herself drifting off before she felt the bed sag underneath an added weight. Familiar arms wrapped around her, and she blinked, groggy, before she turned to her husband in protest. "You should not stay," she said gently. "If you were to catch this -"

" - and leave you to your first sickness alone?" Beren shook his head. "There is no choice, dear one. Not for me."

She swallowed, but did not have the strength to protest further. Instead she settled into his hold, her head finding it's familiar place against his chest as she burrowed closer, arms and legs tangling with the ease of long intimacy. Her heart slowed in her chest. It was a warmth she felt then, a warmth that settled bone deep, fighting away the uncomfortable heat of her sickness. She had to admit, she did feel the tinniest bit better so entwined with him.

She would make him leave later, she thought drowsily. But for now . . .

She waked that morning feeling much revived. Her limbs felt movable. Her nose was dry and her throat was tender, but no longer rubbed raw. She sat up, and felt at her skin, finding it warm to the touch, the bite of her fever gone. She stood – too quickly it seemed, for she felt lightheaded a moment later, but that was a small symptom when compared to how she had felt the night before.  
_  
Well_, she thought, trying to look on her body's rebellion with eyes of humor instead of anything else. _That had been_ . . .

She looked down to see Beren still asleep. His breath was heavy and congested in his chest, a telling sound to her ears. She bit at her lip, and reached down to touch his brow, finding it warm beneath her touch – too warm.

"Foolish man," she said, but there was fondness in her voice when she spoke so.

She turned to the kettle, putting the water on to boil, even as she called to mind the herbs that Beren had used the day before. It was a process – long and slow, but she was learning. Slowly, she was starting to make a home in this new form, in this new life.

Humanity was as a sickness, she thought, and it was catching.


	8. by any other name (CelebornGaladriel)

**Author's Notes: **Celeborn/Galadriel, 100 word drabbles. :)

* * *

**"by any other name"**

**.**

**.**

**Sky**

Artanis first met the Queen Melian in a glade filled with twilight. The Maia was as the Ainur of Valinor, and yet . . . there was something different about Melian. There was an earthiness about her, bellying the celestial might of her spirit - all of which was tied to the King at her side, he with his steel colored hair and his gaze so much like Olwë's that it _hurt_ as she remembered the Swan Havens and their red, red quays.

Transfixed, Artanis wondered, but could not understand how such a might as the sky could ever have lowered itself to love the earth.

**.**

**.**

**Sun**

Celeborn had seen the sun rise for the first time, outshining even the stars. Now, the maiden they called Artanis brought with her a second sunrise – crowned as she was with such a golden light, her eyes like the sky which the sun so brightened. She wore the day as Melian wore the twilight, and for the first Celeborn understood Doriath's founding tale – of magic and love and lust and time standing still as whole _centuries_ passed the Maia and her stolen King by, caught as he now was in that same spell.

_Galadriel_, he named her, and to him, _Galadriel_ she remained.

**.**

**.**

**Moon**

"You, dear sister, are quite smitten."

"Speak not when it makes you sound foolish, Finrod."

"You have been ignoring Thingol's kinsman since the feast began," he ignored her. "Instead, poor Sírnoth thinks that you grant him quite the honor tonight with your attention."

_Sírnoth's hair was not silver,_ Artanis thought, but did not say.

"Fëanor himself would have given all his treasures for three strands of your hair," Finrod continued brightly. "Over every mooning suitor in hallowed Aman, the granddaughter of Finwë instead finds her match in a _Moriquendi_ - a son of the trees?"

"My match?" Artanis repeated dumbly, and Finrod only smiled.

**.**

**.**

**Stars**

They walked the forests on the moonless nights that Celeborn so adored. And yet, even drunk on the stars and their unveiled splendor, she refused to tell him how she could not tell where the silver light ended and he began. She refused to tell him that when the starlight shone through the trees, dappling his skin just so, she found it hard to breathe.

_Artanis, what do you fear?_

She thought of Indis then. Of Nerdanel after Fëanor's heresy. And even of Finrod's own Amarië - all strong woman made _weak_ by love.

_I fear nothing_, she swore, and kept her silence.

**.**

**.**

**Lightning**

"In the end, it comes down to trust," Melian said from her scyring bowl. Afterwards, she carried on as if nothing was amiss, while Artanis blinked - seeing, for the first, her mentor trapped by her raiment of flesh and bone, but not diminished . . .

. . . instead, she was the stronger for it.

Later, Thingol called her by name, and she was Artanis no more.

"Galadriel," she corrected. Next to her, Finrod nearly choked on his wine. "Galadriel, I have been named by your prince," she continued, feeling the _rightness_ of the name strike her like storm-light. "And I would keep it as my own."


	9. from the tender earth (HalethCaranthir)

**Author's Notes: **Yes, I am fully onboard the Haleth/Caranthir ship, and have never looked back since then. ;) This is a free-write, with no fixed length, and there will definitely be more of these two in the future, as well. :)

* * *

**"****from**** the tender earth"**

**.**

**.**

**Bury**

The first time he had met Haleth, daughter of Haldad, her people were a small and wounded thing around her. And for all of the smoke and ruin, the not yet cold corpses and the mire of the battle, he had thought that nothing could touch her.

He had known of her people for some time now - squatters in the southern woods of his lands whom he had all but ignored, even as others of his kind marveled over the arrival of the sons of Men to their world. The Secondborn were nothing but insects to his eyes - not out of any arrogant sense of supremacy on his part, but for the simple allotments of nature - for the years of Men were few, and the struggles they faced within those numbered days were many. They bruised as the children of his kind did not; they took sick easily, falling from the failings of their body even before giving their up their lives to the unmovable hands of time. They lived, they died, and they did so within the blinking of an eye.

Caranthir did not understand his cousin Finrod's fascination with them, and for his part, he paid them no heed. Let them roam his lands – for they were few in number, and were always moving, restless in spirit as they rushed onwards toward their end. They would not last long before passing through, he thought.

But he was not the only one to take notice of the Late Comers upon his lands, the Dark Lord too looked and saw a pocket of humanity trying to live and carve out homes for themselves. Of course, such a thing was not to be borne in Morgoth's mind, and he send a legion of his creatures through the Leaguer in the North. It was not for the Atani that Caranthir took up arms, he told himself. There were simply Orcs on his lands, and he would not stand their presence marring what he had claimed as his own. And so, he ordered his men to arms, and they put to the sword the warring party of Morgoth's filth. The Orc-band had cornered the Atani on a triangle of land where the rivers Gelion and Ascar met, the human's backs to the water and their supplies – of men and food, both - running thin. The Orcs they did not kill with the sword, they pushed towards the river, where the icy currents and white waves took them to a watery grave, just the same.

The battle was done almost before it begun, the wide eyes behind the cobbled together stockade huge with disbelief and gap jawed wonder. They had not expected aid of any kind, he thought, especially from the likes of his kind. Slowly, the people – farmers and woodsman, for the most part – trickled out. They moved slowly, as if in disbelief that it was now safe for them to do so. They muttered beneath their breath as they looked about – mostly in a tongue he could not understand, but a few used halting lines of the Grey-tongue. Ah, they had been familiar with Finrod's people then. Or, at least, had learned the language from kin who had.

He reigned his horse towards the few men left who wore armor – the tattered remnants of the Haladin's defenses. While he did not expect the leader of the Haladin to fall at his feet and do him obeisance, he did expect some sort of thanks for the efforts of his men.

What he did not expect was for a soldier in the middle of the ragtag group to step forward. The man looked at him through a visored helm before crispy declaring in accented Sindarin, "You, my lord, are late."

Caranthir felt a ripple of shock pass through his warriors, and he let a sharp grin carve his face at the mortal's audacity. He knew his own face well enough - knew the way he could hold his anger in his eyes, the fire of Fëanor rising high for all to see. And so, he let that ember breathe. He called it to flame.

He dismounted slowly, flicking Orc-blood from his blade as if it was not worthy of his moving a hand to wipe it away. The steel caught on the midday sun, flashing bright.

"Your leader, child?" he had said, not even bothering to look at the insolent mortal before him. "I will speak to him, and no other."

"Then you speak to her," came the same voice, clipped and sharp.

_Her_, his mind had but a moment to process before gloved – and decidedly _feminine_ hands – rose to lift the war helm from her head. When she did so, a long braid of wheat-brown hair tumbled loose, while clear grey-blue eyes stared at him frankly from beneath long black lashes. It was the face of a woman, he realized after a heartbeat, though her features were plain for a daughter of the Atani – ugly, even, amongst the eyes of the Eldar. Though she wore boiled leather and a vest of chain-mail, he looked and could see where he had missed a woman's form before. _Child_, he had called her, but already she bore a crinkling of lines about the corners of her eyes. She had but a few decades before her hair would be streak with silver, her frank gaze turning dull from the hands of time.

He looked her over once, and did not blink.

"Haldad my father, and Haldar my brother are both dead," she announced. She did not flinch as she said so, even though their blood must have been fresh upon the ground before him. Caranthir looked, but the corpses all looked the same to him. "As I have no husband, Haleth Haldad's daughter leads this people now, and it is to her you may speak."

"Then it is from you I will accept your people's thanks," he said slowly, his head tilted up arrogantly. As he spoke, he let the tip of his sword rest in the ground. The wet soil turned as he slowly twisted the hilt.

Haleth only snorted in reply, raising a brow as if in disbelief. "I?" she questioned, her voice turning with a dark mirth. "I, thank _you_? For what? For passing through with the sword when it so happened to be convenient to you? Since the first of the winter melt we have fought these creatures. And yet, you came to these woods to hunt, not to give aid to me and mine. I thank you, Master-elf, for the lives you have saved, but I do not thank you for your condescension, nor the way you look down your nose at me."

A moment passed. Caranthir moved his mouth, but found himself slow to form his words. "The lady thinks me both ungracious and craven of heart?" he could not help the touch of humor that leached into his words – like a cat, amused by the squeakings of a mouse. "Not many are brave enough to speak to me so."

_Not many indeed_, he reflected wryly. Even his brother's were slow to cross him in anger, he having inherited the worst of both of his parent's tempers, and naught of Nerdanel's ability to call both herself and others to peace.

"Not craven," Haleth corrected him. Her wide mouth pressed into a thin line as she said so. "Nay indeed, for I saw you with a sword in your charge. But I would call you arrogant, and I am weary from the battle. I have too few of silvered words within me to phrase my thoughts better."

"No," Caranthir said. "I think that you said exactly what you meant to say, exactly as you wished to say it."

He stalked forward, slow and easy with his stride, flaunting how very _not human_ he was as he walked. Haleth watched him warily, her eyes flickering from the grip of his sword-hand to the knife-line of his mouth, but she did not back away. "But there is a truth to your words, even so," he admitted. "In your eyes, I have done wrong by your people, and I would set that to rights. Please, my lady, tell me how I may do so."

He stopped not even a pace from her, a small smile tugging on the corner of his mouth as he imagined how they must have appeared to those onlooking. She was tiny when compared to him, the top of her head scarcely came to reach his chin. She was broad of shoulder and hips while he was lithe even within his armor. She moved like the river behind them, rushing and strong as she folded her arms over her chest, while he was like the swaying of the tall trees in the wind. His armor was a deep blue, nearly black, touched by silver at the points, and the elegant eight pointed star of Fëanor was emblazoned upon his breastplate. He wore the silver circlet of a prince at his head. As the son of the most beautiful of the Noldor, he knew that his countenance was striking – from the pale perfection of his features to the black fall of his hair. His eyes, even when shadowed by his Oath, still held the light of the Trees and Valinor remembered . . . and this mortal woman before him, with her tanned skin and weathered complexion, with her boiled leather and thick, mud stained boots stood before him and refused to back away.

When Haleth spoke, her words were slow, as if an idea occurred to her even as she spoke it. Her eyes reminded him of the way sparks would jump from a stone when struck. "If you truly wish to offer us aid, then I would ask of you and yours to help us bury our dead. We lost nearly all of our strong men in the sortie, and I will ask neither old woman nor young child to pick up a shovel for their fathers and sons."

Her words were a challenge, he saw. She did not expect him to accept, to lower himself to this lowest of tasks. She stood with her feet lined with her shoulders in a soldier's stance, her arms still crossed. She expected him to back down.

And so, he thrust his sword into the ground between him. With an exaggerated slowness, he moved to unbuckle the first plate of his armor, and then the second.

"Tell me where I am to dig," he answered simply. He did not have to look behind him to know that his men stiffened in surprise, each one warily eyeing the other before they too went to undo their ties. "We all will do our part to see your loved ones laid to rest."

Haleth tilted her head towards him, wary. She watched him as one would a serpent, and for a moment he thought that she would send them away.

"This way then," she said. When she turned, she did not look behind to see if he followed, but follow he did.

.

.

He had dug gravesites for the better part of the day, and now the evening hour was nearly upon them.

While he worked, he watched the small conclave of Atani as they went about pulling themselves together again. Haleth was right - most of their men had fallen in the raids. A chosen pocket of fighting men still remained standing, and there were even a few strong shouldered woman who wore armor over their chests and swords at their hips. Besides those few, their group was composed of the elderly and the young, and their numbers too were far from untouched by Morgoth's scurge. Caranthir had dug too many resting places for children that day, and his skin was uncomfortable over his bones for the senseless loss, even after the long years of war and bloodshed he had seen.

But, more and more often than not, he found his eyes drawing back to Haleth.

Seven days . . . for seven days she had been without father or twin brother, he had since learned. Seven days ago she had the burden of leadership quite unexpectedly thrust upon her, but he would have not have been able to tell just from looking at her. Haleth held her head high as she walked through the camp, as if separate from the grief around her. She touched children fondly as she passed, ruffling hair and stitching dolls when asked. She took counsel with the older men of her people, not pretending that she had every answer for her people when she herself was few of years. She directed the efforts to scavenge what they could from the settlement, looking over tallies and overseeing rations as they were made. She visited the healer's tent and comforted both those wounded and those who grieved for ones who would not live through the night. She even checked in with their cook to see how the mass preparations for the evening meal were coming – a veritable feast of rabbit stew and flat bread when compared to the rations they had been living on while under siege.

Already Caranthir was calculating what he had on him that could be spared for the struggling group. He and his men had already felled game aplenty, and their stores would go far in feeding the people around him. His men were skilled hunters, and they would easily recover what they would give away on the way back to Lake Helevorn. His offer had been met with a crisp nod and a muttered word of gratitude before Haleth turned away from him, leaving him with an uncomfortable twisting in his gut – an unexpected, curious sensation, as he watched her walk away and wished that he could do more.

He . . . he remembered his own father's death, even though it had been centuries ago now. He remembered how Fëanor's fire had blazed even hotter than the Lord of Balrogs before he collapsed in on himself, leaving nothing but ash in his wake. There had been nothing of Fëanor to bury, nothing of him to mourn, but Caranthir had felt the snapping of his father's fëa deep in his soul, torn like a wound, and he . . .

He had not been able to breathe in the aftermath of that battle. Had not been able to weep as he looked down at his bloodstained hands and wondered what it was all for. Everything, from the first Teleri life taken to the last ship burned at Losgar . . . it had been for _nothing_. When, only days later, Maedhros too was taken from them . . .

Caranthir had not been able to move then from the grief in his bones, the pain in his heart. How could she be so calm now, he wondered? How could she lead her people with her head held high and her mind cold and rational as she tended to what had to be done? Was this some hidden strength of men? he wondered. What ability did these with so few of years have to live and live on brightly - to persevere beneath great adversary in the short time they had allotted to them? _What was he not understanding?_

The only thing he knew was that his eyes turned to Haleth time and time again as the day wore on. Once, even, he had caught her staring in return, her eyes unblinking as she took in the sight of him knee-deep in a grave (the same height now, they looking eye to eye). He did not flatter himself this time – his skin was marred with dirt, and his hair stuck to the back of his neck in graceless tangles. He had shucked aside his armor and tunic so that he worked only in his linen undershirt and doeskin leggings, but it was not the play of his body she watched. No . . . it was the grave he dug. The grave he filled.

When she blinked and turned away, it was with an odd stinging in his heart that he wished for her eyes to turn back to him again.

.

.

By the time the sun was setting, they only had another dozen graves to fill.

Beyond them, the clearing stank where Haleth's men had dragged the Orc corpses to be burned. The black stain of smoke from their pyre was as a wound against the twilit sky. The smoke stung at his eyes until Caranthir turned away from both the funeral pyres and the freshly turned graves around him. He needed a moment away from the earth they filled, he decided. He turned to the river beyond them, intent on cleaning his hands and drinking from the depths there. His soul was troubled, and he needed a moment to gather himself.

Caranthir walked some ways away, not wanting any to see how the day's events had affected him. He felt as a green youth all over again, making his first kill in the woods of Aman as Celegorm laughed at him for how he blanched at the sight of the deer's blood. But that had been natural, at the very least – they taking what Yavanna had given to them as gifts of the earth. This . . . this was senseless. This was needless, and he thought again of Alqualondë and its quays stained red until -

- he realized that he was not alone.

He was not the only one looking for privacy, it would seem - a retreat away from the grief-struck eyes beyond in order to give in to a grief of his own. Haleth herself was kneeling on the riverside when he came to where the trees parted, her back hunched and her face held in her hands as the river babbled on uncaring before her.

She had washed from the battle, was the first thing he saw. Her hair was undone from her braid, and fell in half-damp curls around her shoulders, hanging nearly to her waist. She had set aside her armor, but still wore a leather jerkin and dark brown leggings in the style of a man. Her boots were strong and sturdy on her legs, leaving tracks on the muddy shore to where she knelt, the ground wet both with blood and snow-melt.

She splashed at her face, and it took him but a moment to realize that she had been weeping. She was not as unaffected as he would have first thought; she was not untouchable. He could not see her face, but he could see the stiff set of her shoulders, the bent line of her back . . . She grieved and knew pain, but somehow she was only stronger for it. Her grief did not make her appear weak before his eyes.

He stood at the line of trees, unsure for a moment. In the end, he decided against leaving, and purposefully stepped on a twig as he came up the river, letting her know of his presence. She looked up as he came near, wiping the back of her hand over her eyes before turning to face him.

"How many are left?" she asked instead of greeting him. Her voice was a whisper, made hoarse from her grief. Already her eyes had dried. When she looked at him, he could not tell that she had cried at all.

"A dozen or so," he answered. He made his hands fists at his sides as he knelt by the river, slowly, he uncurled his fingers in the water. The current took the grave-soil from his palms, as if it had never been.

"My . . ." she tried to make her throat work. It afforded her no sound. "My brother? My father?"

"They are next," he said, and while his voice was not gentle, he knew that the challenge there had gone. He could not remember why it had been there in the first place.

"Good," she nodded sharply before turning to rise once more. She paused for a moment, but she was steady on her feet when she looked at him. "I wish to dig them myself."

A part of him wanted to protest out of habit, as much as anything else. It was not traditional, it was not usual for a woman to have to do such a thing, but he was not sure how to find the words to say so. If Fëanor had left them anything to bury, Caranthir thought . . . if he had . . .

"I understand," he said simply, and while it was all he said, she looked at him with a raised brow. Her eyes were darker in the twilight, the same color as the river before them, and there was something there that considered him before she nodded sharply, her decision made.

When they returned to the now sprawling graveyard, he handed her a shovel, and none questioned her place amongst the working men as she drew that first bite from the earth. A moment later, and then a second shovelful was taken. Then a third.

He watched her before taking his place to dig next to her. After a moment of nothing to hear but for the slide of metal against the soil, he found a lament rising to his lips – a song of mourning, singing the mortal souls to wherever it was the sons of Men partook of their rest beyond the circles of the earth. He entreated Námo, he sang to Eru himself for his undeserved mercy and kindness. His men took up his song as the sun set overhead, its last rays bathing the faces of those they buried before the soil of their graves covered them like the night. After a long while, their lament turned without words – a hum of grief without syllable or rhyme. It was a song he had sung one too many times, he thought. He knew its verses all too well.

Haleth did not know the words he sang. She could not even begin to understand the High Tongue to try and sing along. But she did add her voice when the song became at last wordless, and her voice was soon joined with many others. While not beautiful, her voice was strong, and when she placed the last shovelful of dirt over her father's grave, her throat was hoarse. Her eyes were red, even when no tears fell.

Eventually, the song ebbed from his lips, and yet many others in the camp carried it on - new voices picking up the refrain where others tired and tapered off until they were strong enough to join again. It was a song that went on, unbroken, long into the night.


	10. measured by many branches (Glorfindel)

**Author's Notes**: In honor of the season, we have here a slew of Glorfindel free-writes. Shut-up, my muse had feelings, apparently. ;)

* * *

**"measured by many branches"**

.

.

** Ice**

He had not know that it was possible to be this cold.

The Helcaraxë was bitterly cold before his ill advised trip through the frozen waters underneath the shelf they walked upon. Now, it was all but unbearable as his teeth chattered, and his skin paled to an alarming shade of blue. The healers were worried about whether or not he would keep his fingers and toes, and though the worst was past, he still had trouble bending his limbs properly. His hair froze together in a clump of dull gold after he clawed his way from the water, and had to be cut away lest the cold about his neck do him more harm than his vanity was worth. He was trying not to think about that. Not yet, anyway.

And yet, he knew that he would do it again – a hundred times over, if he had to. For, one moment Elenwë and Itarillë had been walking next to him, and then they were falling, _falling_, and he had reached until his hand had caught the child's in a desperate hold, and he had swam desperately for the surface. He had given all of his warmth to the shivering thing in his hold once they broke the water - even to the point of doing a serious harm to himself, and now . . .

Now, he was dry and relatively warm, and yet he still could not fight the chill from his bones, the cold from his spirit. He was heart-sick and soul-sore for the loss of his friend, and . . .

"You are not smiling," Itarillë said sleepily from beside him. Turukáno had been inconsolable when they had failed to save Elenwë, feeling his wife's death deep in his spirit, and now he was with his father and sister. Glorfindel had taken the girl for the night, so she would not have to see and feel her father's grief. He had not wanted to let her out of his sight for some inexplicable fear, deep inside . . .

"You are always smiling," Itarillë continued on a whisper. Though her face was red and her eyes were raw from her tears, she reached out a single, chubby finger to touch the corner of his mouth, as if by doing so she could return his smile to its place. The only child amongst their host, the Ice had touched her the least physically, but now . . . her spirit . . .

"I shall try to smile for you, little one," Glorfindel muttered, holding her closer. The Ice had taken away physical boundaries from everyone. All in their camp had become long used to sharing the heat of their bodies, both for the warmth of flesh and the comfort of spirits. Now, Itarillë burrowed closer to him, and he ran a soothing hand through her hair as the winds moaned a sad song beyond their tent. On the other side of Itarillë, Ecthelion had been quiet throughout the whole encounter, but he rubbed absently at the child's back as he eased her into a healing sleep, where she would rest without dreams.

"She will heal," Ecthelion muttered as her breathing deepened and evened out. "The soul of this one is strong."

"She should not have to be so strong of spirit," Glorfindel found his words thick in his throat. "Not when so young."

Ecthelion did not respond to that, but his silvery eyes turned shadowed in reply. A heartbeat passed. "You do always have a smile," Ecthelion said simply. "It warms others more than you know."

"There is no warmth here," Glorfindel said after a moment. He was too weary for words spoken closely together. "At least, not where I can find."

"Even so," Ecthelion rolled his shoulders.

Glorfindel did not respond, and yet, when Itarillë shifted, restless in her sleep, the other man started to hum softly in the back of his throat - a hymn to Laurelin, now gone, whispering of light and warmth. Voices could not rise in song on the Helcaraxë, but Ecthelion found his warmth, and gave what verses he could.

Glorfindel simply closed his eyes, and listened.

**.**

**.**

**Ski**

It was, in his mind, a perfectly acceptable idea.

His friend, however, was quick to disagree. And yet, seeing as how Ecthelion differed with him on a great many things, Glorfindel had not yet decided whether or not he would heed his words or cast them aside.

As he pondered this quandary in his mind, he curiously placed his shield on the ground, kneeling before the hardened steel and squinting down the mountainside, wondering . . .

"You are going to get yourself killed," Ecthelion pointed out dryly.

"Nonsense," Glorfindel waved a hand. "You and I are fated to find our ends in grand and laudable ways. This -"

" - trying to appease your boredom with guard-duty by acting with the mind of a simpleton?" Ecthelion supplied helpfully. "You merely had to say so; I have paperwork aplenty if you wished to keep busy."

Glorfindel made a face. "And yet . . ."

Ecthelion sighed, the motion just barely disturbing the pale stone of his features. He was entirely too silver on the mountainside, Glorfindel thought, his helm and armor glittering in the sunlight, catching on the tip of the spear he held . . .

Ah!

"My friend," he praised warmly. "You have given me quite the idea."

He toed the shield aside, and stood upon it, rather than knelt. He stuck his own spear into the ground then, steadying himself . . .

Ecthelion was hardly impressed. "Eru help Mandos find patience when he gathers your soul," he said, ever encouraging. "Although I do believe that you would be the one spirit to successfully annoy Lord Námo into casting you back early. You would cause too much of a splash in the Halls, I fear."

Glorfindel snorted out a laugh. It was hard not to, with the cold mountain air and the fresh fallen snow; the untouched slope just _taunting_ him . . .

He gathered himself, ready to push off, when -

" - here," Ecthelion said, resigned to his course. Glorfindel looked, and saw that his friend offered him his own spear. "So that you may balance yourself with both hands."

Glorfindel could not help but smile wider, knowing how much that would irk the other. "My friend," he let his smile grow as he took the spear. "You _do_ care."

"Do not let any know," Ecthelion replied wryly. "And do try to avoid the pointed ends should you come upon a fall. Manwë only knows what the songs would say then."

But his words were already lost to the wind as the mountain roared in his ears.

**.**

**.**

**Sled**

"And what is _this_ I see?"

"_This_, is not what it looks like."

"If by this," Glorfindel said easily, walking forward to toe at the thin metal disk that his friend was arranging on the ground, "you mean: 'a sure way to find oneself in to Mandos' Halls', then I think that _this_ is exactly what it looks like."

Ecthelion scowled. "_This_, is a sled," he pointed out primly, "And it has been designed by Maeglin himself for just such a venture. One shall be sitting, not standing. And certainly not standing with weapons in hand to _steer_ with."

Glorfindel waited for one moment, and then two. He smiled, knowing."And the child asked you to do so, did he not?"

Ecthelion's far face flushed, and Glorfindel smiled widely, knowing that he had caught him. In their impossibly still city, new unions were rare and children even rarer still. Eärendil was a blessing to their people; his laughter brightening the mountains and heartening the souls of all who heard it. His curiosity and wide eyes for the newness of the world stirred the fondness of their immortal race, who, at times, slipped into age long habits and routines without even realizing they did so. The family he served, and thought of as his own, blossomed with the addition of the boy. Idril fairly glowed in the role of both wife and mother, and Turgon their Lord had not been as happy with a grandchild to spoil as he had since the last his wife had lived.

His stern friend had taken to the child more than most, and the little prince was fascinated in kind - following the old warrior's footsteps down to the way he walked and talked, always begging for songs and stories and carved wooden toys.

Glorfindel breathed in deep, and found the cold stretching his lungs. It had been long since he had felt so content in his own skin, he thought. He felt rooted in that moment, bound as he was to the land beneath his feet as he had never felt in Aman across the sea. He exhaled, and found that Ecthelion was watching him, a thoughtful look on his face. He wondered if his friend could feel it too.

"As our resident sledding expert," Ecthelion said in a grave tone, "I would welcome any advice you would have to offer."

"My friend," Glorfindel clapped the other on the back. "You only had to ask."

**CXI. Avalanche**

He had always known that his life would end this way.

It was not to him to fade away with the end of the world and the great ages of time. He would not fall to so simple an end from an enemy on the battlefield - a stray arrow or a lucky twist of an Orc-blade. No . . . he would die greatly, and he would die in flames.

The mountains were cold this time of year. The snow drifts were up to the thighs of most as they scrambled to flee from the ruin of the city behind them. The black smoke of burning Gondolin reached the heavens like the shadow of night, and soot fell on the mountain passes like snow, as foul and wrong as Morgoth's horde of filth behind them.

And, before them . . .

"You do not have to do this," he heard Idril plead. Her hand was white-knuckled on the plates of his armor. Had he not worn it, her touch would have left bruises. "_Please_."

Such a fear was carved onto her face, a face so much like dear Elenwë's, he thought. Tears clung to her eyes, for her father's death . . . Maeglin's betrayal . . . for Ecthelion, dead in the Square of the King as he faced the Lord of Balrogs himself, they each taking the other life for life . . .

At Idril, Glorfindel only smiled. He took the few seconds he had left to wipe a tear away as he had those long centuries ago, passing a hand through her hair as he tucked it behind her ear in one fond gesture of farewell.

"Dear Itarillë," he said. "Always, this has been the ending I have wished for myself. I do this without grief in my heart; without a single regret."

He let his smile hold. He could feel his fëa as it rose to his skin, no longer content as it was to be constrained by the cage of his flesh. In that moment, he knew that light poured from him like something living. He could see it reflected in the eyes of those he would die protecting. He could feel it blaze like an inferno, greater than even the demon of flame who awaited him beyond – bellowing out his challenge to the mountain itself.

Idril held his hand to her face for a moment, then two, and then he turned from her.

"Run, Itarillë," he said as he approached his end. "Run, and do not look back."

He felt his fëa as it rose higher, as it filled the air around him like a flame. His smile was one of challenge now as he faced the creature awaiting him. He thought of Turgon as he twisted his sword in his hands; the King he loved, whom he would soon meet in the Halls of Mandos. He thought next of dear Idril and the boy-child Tuor held in his arms. Tuor was a strong man, and he would lead his people well. His Lord's family would live through them - _live_, and he . . .

The Balrog struck his whip of flame. His demon wings struck against the ground like thunder, blocking out the sunlight above. His foul mouth was an evil line of amusement, as if his audacity in challenging him was something to _laugh_ over. But it did not matter. For in that moment, Glorfindel was great enough to match him. In that moment, Glorfindel was not of flesh and bone, but rather _light_ . . .

Together, he knew, they would bring down the mountainside.

**.**

**.**

**Frost**

A year had passed since his release from the Halls, and yet, Glorfindel still felt a coldness of spirit that was simply _not right_ in this land of peace and plenty. Aman was just as he remembered it being . . . but he . . . he had changed. He had changed, while the home he had once left far behind him stayed ever the same.

"Am I the only one who feels this way?" Glorfindel asked his friend, just having struggled to put his thoughts into words.

Ecthelion had been released from Mandos near the same time as he, and he had spent his time since then building a small cottage off of the road between Tirion and Alqualondë, where he could be close to both of his peoples. Now, he was teaching roses to bloom up trellises on the side of his small house, patiently trimming and coaxing as he went.

For he had forever to do so.

Glorfindel sat, and let the garden soil trail through his fingers as he picked it up and let it fall again.

"I do not know," Ecthelion answered simply. "I suppose there are some who feel as you do, and yet . . . this burns in you like a live flame. I could feel it like frost about your soul, even before you spoke of it to me."

"And you . . ." Glorfindel asked, reaching for something he could not name. "Do you feel . . ." He could not finish his thought. His tongue could not form the words.

"I?" Ecthelion asked. "If I had a choice . . ." he sighed, a long and weary sound that had no place in hallowed Aman. "I fought against shadow. I died doing so. Now the years have moved on, and our fight belongs to others now. If I were given the choice . . . I believe that I would stay here, with my gardens."

Glorfindel sighed though his nose, wiping his hands clean as he did so. He tapped his fingers restlessly on his knee, thinking . . .

He had met Eärendil the day before last – and what a shock that had been, to see Idril's child as a man grown. He had a pretty Sindarin bride now – Elwing the White, the granddaughter of Lúthien Fairest-born, of all people – and two full grown sons of his own back in Middle-earth. He wore the Silmaril of Lúthien about his brow now, warming every room he entered with a holy light, and yet . . .

And yet, Eärendil seemed to suffer from the same restlessness of spirit that he did, Glorfindel thought, his heart clenching oddly. Eärendil mourned, and Glorfindel . . .

"_I would give anything to go back, even though I know that it is selfish to think such things_ _. . ."_

" _. . . the world needed me, and so I answered the_ _call of my people. If I had not done what I had, the Dark Lord himself_ _would still reign in the uttermost north, and yet . . . I would be lying if I said that it was merely duty which shaped my deeds . . . for the sea called to me, and I could not . . . I was not strong enough to . . ."_

" _. . . I chose my duty over my family . . . Should such bonds have been more sacred than mere duty? I do not know half of the time, and it is an argument that runs my mind in circles at night . . ._"

" _. . . I left them there, and Elwing did too . . . left them to the Fëanorians_ _and their cruel mercies . . ."_

" _. . . and yet, my sons_ _were loved in their care. My sons called Kinslayers 'father', and I only 'Gil-estel' – an untouchable star in the night sky . . . And yet . . . the Sons of Fëanor_ _have always taken family most seriously, I should not have been as surprised as I was_ _. . ."_

" _. . . surprised, and grateful . . ."_

" _. . . my youngest son_ _chose the fate of Men, and passed on in mortal-death less than five years ago_ _. . . I never had a chance to know my son, and now, I never will . . ."_

" _. . . and the other . . ."_

" _. . . I sail over Lindon every night, looking down . . . and yet I cannot touch, I cannot offer comfort . . . there is so much I cannot do . . ."_

" _. . . the world calls me 'hope', but I . . . I would give anything to go back, even if but for a moment . . ."_

" _. . . I would give_ _anything."_

_Anything._

"My answer pains you," Ecthelion said gently, breaking him from his thoughts.

"Never that," Glorfindel said, rising to his feet. He felt anchored in his skin then, a war he had long been waging in his mind now coming to an end. He knew what he wanted. Now, he had only to figure out how to make his wishes a reality. He had to . . .

"I wish you well on your journey," Ecthelion said, seeing where he consciously made the choice his spirit had long since decided. "Truly, you are a light to this marred world."

For a moment, Glorfindel found it hard to breathe. He could feel the thin layer of ice about his spirit melting, as spring breaking from the winter, and yet . . .

"I wish not to . . ." he started, not sure how to phrase his words.

"Leave me behind?" Ecthelion raised a dark brow. "It is true, you shall send your soul to Mandos again on some foolhardy stunt without me to hold you back. And yet, I am sure you will be just fine."

Glorfindel snorted. "Admit it, I have always kept your life from dull monotony."

"It is true," Ecthelion did not bother denying it. "And yet . . . I have forever to wait for your return. I shall enjoy the quiet while you are gone."

Glorfindel felt his heart rise, full in his chest. He turned to embrace the other man, not ashamed at the tears when they came. "My friend," he said truly. "I will miss you."

"And I you," Ecthelion gave a gentle smile. "And yet, for now I will stay . . . and wait for the roses to bloom."

**.**

**.**

**Melt**

So far, the unforeseen difficulties with his return to Middle-earth came not from any outside impetus, but rather, from the descendant of his Lord himself.

Oh, Elrond was polite enough, but that was precisely the problem. Elrond was polite to all, but truly friendly to none. He was respected by all, but close to no one in particular. He was a noted scholar, a decorated warrior, a brilliant tactician - a healer without compare . . . but Glorfindel still knew nothing about the particulars of his character. His likes, his dislikes, his innermost thoughts? All remained a mystery. Glorfindel was truly perplexed – stumped, even, and he did not like feeling so.

Not even five years since the death of Elros, Eärendil had said, and Glorfindel could see where the fractures of that loss still broke through the young soul before him.

_A healer to all but himself_, Glorfindel thought grimly. Though he wished not to say it, Elwing and Eärendil had damaged their sons more than they could have known with their leaving in such a way . . . And then, afterward, Maglor and Maedhros' abandonment of the twins to Gil-galad's care – even when done in the children's best interest - stung more than Glorfindel thought that Elrond even consciously knew. Galadriel had tried to tell him, in part, when he had first arrived in Lindon – Círdan and Gil-galad too – but Glorfindel had not truly understood what they were trying to tell him until he truly threw himself into trying to get to know the last Peredhil.

But, he was determined. That determination had gotten him far before, and he intended for it to carry him far again.

The first snow of the season had come to Lindon. Overnight, the snow had blanketing everything from the city to the harbor to the sand dunes which stretched to the sea shore beyond. The ice reached even to the waves, freezing the rolling waters close to the shore while the warmth and movement of the ocean further out refused to be touched. It was, Glorfindel thought, one of the more picturesque scenes he had seen in his long life so far.

And now . . .

"I have been told that it is unhealthy, my fascination with the snow," he stretched his best smile onto his face, and kept it there. "Once, a friend tried to explain that my love of the winter is a coping mechanism for my days spent on the Ice, but I say that it is a simple appreciation of nature."

Next to him, Elrond raised a brow – showing a polite interest, as always. "Unhealthy?" he tilted his head. "I do not believe I would call it so, in either instance."

Glorfindel shrugged. "You shall just have to form your own opinions by the end of the day."

Wariness now joined the polite interest. Glorfindel shook away the odd feeling he had that he was fighting a battle of blows, rather than friendly exchange of words. He had an irrational moment where he wished that Idril was there with him. She always knew what to say with troubled souls, and she would know . . .

But no.

"Yes," he answered the unspoken. "I do not wish to spend my first snowfall back in Middle-earth alone, and thus, you shall be required to cater to the eccentric whims of a guest and accompany me."

Cornered, Elrond had no choice but to follow him, and now, here they were, standing at the top of the snow covered dunes, with sleds in hand. Out of all the things that Maeglin had given to Gondolin, Glorfindel was glad to see that his design had survived through the centuries – elsewise, they would have had to use the lids from the barrels on the docks – or their shields, though that hadn't gone so very well the first time he had tried . . .

His thoughts were distracting him. He set them aside, nearly giddy as he positioned his sled on the slope, ready to -

"I must confess that I do not quite see the point."

Glorfindel fought the urge to sigh. "The point," he said gently, "is to have _fun_. You do so for the simple enjoyment of doing so. One cannot simply find ones pleasure in books, after all."

Elrond's look dipped, just slightly, "I do not - " he started to protest, but Glorfindel interrupted.

" - do you have one silly lay about singing trolls, or a fanciful tale of adventure in those dusty old tomes you pour through?" Glorfindel waited. "No. I thought as much. A scholar's activities – a healer's gift - both do much to give one a sense of self. They strengthen the spirit, but they will do nothing to a mind already burdened down and weary. Do you see the difference?"

"I think, I see what you try to say," Elrond said slowly. He looked down at the sled on the snow, and then the hill itself. His gaze was still dubious.

Glorfindel counted to ten. "I did this with your father, years ago," Glorfindel tried to take another route. "He was very young then, but it was something he remembered, even in Aman. I am . . . it pains me that I was not there to do so with you."

A moment passed. He knew that he had caught the other off guard when Elrond opened his mouth and then closed it, as if unsure of what to say. "Sometimes," he said slowly. "Life does not go the way we would wish for it to."

And Glorfindel had had it. With a speed born of centuries upon more battlefields than he could count, he reached out, and pushed the other over. Elrond landed on the sled with a surprised look on his face that Glorfindel would remember for _years_ to come, and then he kicked the sled down the hill. The Peredhel's reflexes kicked in, and he righted himself as the sled picked up speed, and with a shout of his own, Glorfindel followed him down the dune. The sea and the horizon beyond blurred together as he sent up a shower of snow in his path, laughing madly for the sheer joy of doing so.

By the time he landed, Elrond was already on his feet and righting himself. Though he tried to give off the air of one much put upon, a smile clung to the corner of his mouth. Glorfindel gave his own smile widely in reply.

"There!" he exclaimed. "You _do_ know how to smile. You know, you look like Turgon when you do so," Glorfindel added after a moment. He shivered at the uncanny resemblance, feeling as if he looked upon a ghost.

"Turgon," Elrond said the name softly, thoughtfully. It hurt, Glorfindel thought, the way he said the names of family as if they were merely figures from a tale. Characters from the histories he studied. "My great-grandfather," Elrond said again, as if trying to make the name something real to him. "_Turgon_."

He looked back up the hill. Slowly, he relaxed his hands from where they had made fists at his side. Elrond met his gaze, and then held it. "Could you . . ." he asked slowly. "Could you tell me more?"

Gone in his voice was the bland politeness of court. Glorfindel listened, and thought he could hear _Elrond_ there, for the first.

He reached down, and picked up his sled, oddly touched. He felt triumph fill his lungs.

"It would be my honor," Glorfindel answered warmly. "Tell me, what would you want to know first?"

**.**

**.**

**Snowball**

The further and further north they went in the mountains, the colder it became. But with Sauron's unholy forces pushing in on them from the south, and the combined host of Elrond's army from Lindon and the remnants of Celeborn's men from Eregion just barely limping along . . . they needed a place where they could regroup for the winter. A place where they could regain their strength and plan their reply to the Dark Maia in full.

So far, they had been following the cries of the Eagles overhead, listening for their caws and trusting that the voice of Manwë was guiding them. In the shadows of the crags, Glorfindel could feel a familiar light cling to his skin, brightening the dreary winter-land around them.

At his side, he was joined by a scout named Erestor. As a son of Fëanorian supporters – even Fëanorians who had not participated in the Kinslayings, Erestor had found life in Lindon to be stiffling and had joined the exodus to Eregion those long years ago. A scholar and a minstrel over a craftsman, he had carefully chronicled the days of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, and had been the messenger sent to Lindon when news of Annatar's true nature was revealed.

Erestor knew these mountains much better than Glorfindel did, and so, Elrond had sent the two of them on ahead to find a place in the mountains to hide. They looked for a place of rest, and peace . . .

And, until that place was found, Glorfindel was enjoying getting to know his companion in full. With his dark hair and pale skin – and prickly character to boot, he reminded him almost painfully of Ecthelion. The resemblance alone was enough to earn his almost immediate affection, but Erestor, on the other hand . . .

Well, Glorfindel reasoned, he was used to fighting long battles with closely introverted individuals. This would be no different.

Right now, he was whistling as they picked through the mountain path, every note causing his companion to turn more and more tense with annoyance.

"Every Orc in the mountain will hear us with you causing such a ruckus," Erestor said in a dry tone.

"Nonsense," Glorfindel replied, gesturing up at the Eagles circling overhead. "No dark thing will dare go near them. We are quite safe beneath the shadow of Manwë."

"You would say so," Erestor said wryly, but without much venom. Glorfindel imagined it was because he had stopped whistling in order to speak. "Did an Eagle not carry you back after your duel with the Balrog?" he asked, his voice turning with curiosity.

Glorfindel rolled his shoulders. "So I am told, I was not quite . . . there myself at the time," his smile was more of a grimace, and Erestor had the decency to flush, realizing what memories his words must have brought back. Glorfindel waved a hand, not wishing for the nearly-friendly conversation between them to turn south again. "It is my one wish for this life – to fly with one of the Eagles, while still alive and able to remember doing so."

Erestor raised a brow, but there was not quite the same amount of annoyance there as there would have been before.

"Come now," Glorfindel said to the look. "Do you not have any impossible dreams?"

"Right now," Erestor said, "My dearest dream is to be somewhere warm, and safe."

How very . . . uninspired.

Glorfindel raised a brow as Erestor went by him on the path, feeling his bones itch with the urge for movement. Feeling his mouth turn, Glorfindel reached down to gather a ball of snow in his hands, suddenly inspired. Packing the snow together, he then _threw_, and felt satisfaction burst within him when the snow shattered across the other's back in an explosion of white.

Erestor stiffened, turning behind him with a look of red anger upon his face. "Was that you?" he asked - rather stupidly, Glorfindel thought. For there was no one else on the path.

Glorfindel tried hard not to blink. "It was the Eagles," he said as convincingly as he could, and just like that, the ire broke from Erestor. His face contorted oddly, as if he were trying not to smile. Glorfindel waited for it, but -

Overhead, an Eagle called. There was an urgency to the tone, and they _knew_ . . .

"There," Glorfindel said. "There is a parting in the rock."

They ran forward, careful of the ice over the steep cliffs. The Eagles were lower now, flying in urgent circles as their golden brown wings reflected the sunlight. They called, and _there_ -

A valley of falling water came into view, perfectly hidden in the mountains. Waterfalls played and rivers sung, each paying homage to the beauty of the mountains and the great sky above, and -

Glorfindel felt his heart catch at the beauty in the valley. There was _magic_ here, flowing from water and stone and branch. For a moment, he could not breathe.

"Some place warm and safe," he clapped Erestor on the back. "I do believe that you have found your wish, my friend."

**.**

**.**

**Snowman**

Near the front gate of the valley, a small child waited.

All in the household would pass the balconies that would let them glance in on the little girl and her steady vigil, smiling fondly in amusement as they looked down. Many stopped to make sure that Arwen was comfortable, bringing blankets and refreshing her mug of hot tea to ward against the chill in the air. Celebrían had tried to talk her daughter into waiting inside, but Arwen would hear nothing of it – and finally, after drawing a promise that inside she would go once the sun started to set, Arwen settled back in. Her young eyes were set solemnly on the gap in the pass – where her brothers would appear at any moment, returning home for the winter from where they had ridden out with the Dúnedain earlier in the summer.

Glorfindel watched the child with a fondness in his heart that he had not felt since Idril was that age, running about underfoot and trailing giggles in her wake. The girl moved with a grace beyond her years, and already her eyes were old and wise. But Arwen was still a child, with a child's needs, and so he came down with one of his thickest cloaks, and placed it over her small shoulders before she could protest.

"It is okay to be cold," he said easily, his breath frosting on the air between them. "I get cold quite easily myself," he leaned in close to say so, as if he were telling a secret of great importance.

Arwen's grey eyes widened, just slightly about the edges. "But I thought that you loved the snow?" she said, puzzling through the two seemingly contradictory pieces of information in her mind.

"Indeed, I do love the snow," Glorfindel said. "It does not mean that I am immune to the cold."

"Ah," Arwen said simply, her head tilted as she processed what she had learned – a motion that was so very _Elrond_ that Glorfindel had to tuck his smile aside.

He sat down next to her on the bench – which had been cleared of snow, even though the white powder fairly clung to everything else. Her eyes had turned faithfully back to the pass, ever waiting. Her small shoulders were tense, her happy mouth unsmiling.

"I worry about them as well," Glorfindel said softly. "I do not like it when they go past where I can see - and this is the first time that they have ridden from the valley when not underneath my protection."

Arwen blinked, and looked over at him. "They ride with the sons of Men now," she said, setting her jaw. Her eyes flashed for a moment – a child's alignment of her missing her brothers given to the only thing she could think to assign blame.

"Indeed, the Dúnedain are valiant and worthy men all. Your brothers will learn much from their ways," Glorfindel chided gently. "And the Dúnedain are very distant kin of yours, as well. Do well to remember that."

Arwen took a moment, considering his words, before she nodded her head. Her look was still grim on her face as she stared at the pass.

Glorfindel waited a moment, and then two. "I miss them too, little one."

Arwen sucked in a breath. Her lower lip wobbled, as if she wished to cry, but was trying not to. "I miss then _dearly_," she said, reaching over to pat his hand as if she were the one offering him comfort, and he felt warmth grow in his heart for the child, touched as he was. "It is better missing them together," she finally decided.

"They will not be long," Glorfindel soothed. "The snows came early this year, and that can make traveling in the mountains tricky. They were merely delayed."

"Yes . . . delayed," Arwen said, her voice shaped like relief, and Glorfindel grinned.

Looking around the open square of stone – where visitors were normally received, he felt a thought come upon him at the untouched planes of white snow, thinking . . .

When he got up, he started to form a snowball in his hand, and then he rolled the ball on the ground, making it bigger. Arwen looked at him curiously as he did so, her head tilted to the side again.

"Glorfindel, what are you doing?" she asked.

"I am building a snowman," Glorfindel said. "And you are going to help. We can set them up as sentinels, and they can help us keep watch. How does that sound?"

Arwen looked torn between keeping her eyes on the pass, and joining in on the admittedly more exciting prospect of snowman building.

"I suppose I could help you," she said carefully. "For a little while, at least."

"A very little while," Glorfindel promised, passing his half formed ball of snow to Arwen to finish, while he started on the 'midsection' of the snowman. When their construction took them well into the afternoon – they both grinning and covered in snow – Arwen did not even notice her brothers' returning until they picked her up and spun her about, and her laughter again filled the valley.

**.**

**.**

**Snowfall**

It was snowing the day the Fellowship left Imladris.

Glorfindel watched them depart with a weight on his heart, a disquiet in his bones. The land was filled with shadow again, stretched darker and deeper than it had even in the days of Morgoth and his unholy evil. And now, they were sending those dearest and brightest of their kinds to fight that shadow . . .

He made fists of his hands at his side, restless in his own skin. The urge to _do_ more, to _be_ more, clawed at his bones. And yet, he had to remind himself that the days of his kind were coming to an end. This fight belonged to Men in its heaviest of ways. And so, it was Men who would bring the Dark One to his knees. Men . . . and the gentle souled halfling who carried Sauron's greatest weapon about his neck.

Would that he could carry this burden for Frodo, he thought – would that any of them could. And yet, it was Frodo's to carry, and he was left here waiting.

Waiting . . . and watching the life he had come to hold dear unravel around him. Most of the valley prepared to leave. His people would turn towards the Havens and travel West, even if Sauron was defeated. Most would follow their Lord from the valley – for if the Ring was destroyed, the lesser Rings would die as well, and Elrond's fëa was fractured and torn from using Vilya for so many years. He and the Golden Lady both would need the West for healing, for repairing their souls, and they would leave these lands far behind.

And yet, many would stay. Many would stay with their Lord's daughter, stay until the Evenstar passed from the circles of the world, and darkness truly fell upon the lands.

Glorfindel . . . he would stay. He would see Arwen's choice through to the end before returning to the lands of his birth. He had promised her father in all but words that he would do so, and now . . .

Now, Erestor was carefully cataloging the contents of the library, deciding what would go with Arwen to Gondor, and what would cross the sea to Aman. He had a long scroll out in the gardens – he needing the fresh and natural air, even though the snow fell upon the parchment and muddled his words.

"There is so much to do," Erestor muttered. "No matter how the days to come play out, there is much to plan, much to arrange." His fingers were white knuckled about the scroll. He too glanced where the company had departed.

In his heart . . . in his heart, Glorfindel knew that Frodo would succeed. He knew that Aragorn would reclaim his birthright, that he and Arwen would wed . . . he knew this the same as he had known that the Witch-king would not fall by the hands of any man, all of those years ago. He was no seer, he had not the touch of the Sight, but he had the light of the Valar in his soul, and he _knew_.

Erestor's thoughts followed much the same, he thought, for he was looking over the gardens with a tired, old look in his eyes. He fiddled with the quill in his hand before setting both aside, suddenly weary.

"Do you ever . . ." he started carefully. "Do you ever regret your choice?" he asked simply. "You could have had a life of your own in Aman, a family even. Now, to return to where darkness so clearly falls . . . over and over again. Do you ever wish you had chosen differently?"

Glorfindel looked, and honestly considered his answer before he gave it. In Aman, he could have married, he could have had children of his own, and yet, he looked . . . He looked, and saw the balcony where Celebrían had asked him for Elrond's hand all of those centuries ago – skewering tradition as she addressed the only 'family' Elrond had this side of the ocean. He looked, and saw the room where he had paced nervously throughout the births of all three children, worry in his throat, even though they were not born of his blood. He looked, and saw where he had taught Elladan and Elrohir the bow, where he had sat in these same gardens and helped Arwen learn the High-tongue, as it was spoken in far Aman . . . He saw, and he _remembered_ . . .

If he had brought even a fraction of light to this darkened world . . . if he had made the light just _that much_ brighter for Turgon's line . . .

Then yes . . .

. . . yes.

"I regret nothing," he said simply. "And my family is here. All of my family," he said, looking at Erestor – dear Erestor, who had grown closer to him than any brother of flesh and bone. Erestor, who would go across the ocean with Elrond, and too would be one more soul whom Glorfindel would have to miss and _wait for_.

But, not for much longer, he thought.

When he got to his feet, and turned from the other, he was surprised when he felt a cold ball of snow hit him right between the shoulderblades. He turned behind him, a smile blooming on his face for the other's audacity - for not once in all of their centuries together had Erestor done so. Now, a small smile cracked the corners of his grim facade. His dark eyes were heavy with feeling.

"There is that smile," Erestor said. "Take care, my friend, to see that it never falls from its place – for it brings light to more than you know."

**.**

**.**

**Tradition**

Rare was it when snow fell in Minas Tirith, for Gondor was far to the south, and warm nearly the whole year through. And so, it was when journeying north with Arwen's ever growing family to visit her brothers in Imladris, that her children saw snow for the first time in the foothills of the Misty Mountains.

Eldarion was all giggles and unrestrained smiles while he went stomping through the snow as fast as his feet could carry him. He was tall for his ten summers, tripping over his own coltish legs more often than not, but he had determination enough to carry him on, and even falling in the snow brought nothing but more laughter from him.

Younger Amdiriel was slower to follow her brother, instead standing very close to her mother's side and just _looking_ at the snow, as if by doing so, she could force the strange white powder to fade from the strength of her gaze. She was a miniature replica of her mother, with her straight black hair and solemn grey eyes – even the stubborn set to her shoulders was Arwen, and it warmed Glorfindel's heart to see. Arwen herself was glowing with the presence of her family and the cold of the wild both. She would be a mother again soon, he knew, though the new life of her daughter was just flickering in her womb. She had been newly pregnant when they left the White City, and instead of delaying their trip, she had instead decided to bear her next daughter in the home of her childhood, and then return home to Gondor when the babe was strong enough to travel.

Amdiriel took after her mother's people, and was empathetic to the point of the uncanny. She leaned against her mother's side, the tiny point of her ear nearly pressed to her mother's stomach in her wish to constantly be near to the little soul developing within. Eldarion understood the concept of another sister only in the broadest of terms, he being – as Amdiriel put it so eloquently – more Troll-brained than anything else. But he understood that something special was happening, and that his family was to grow again, and for that the boy was all smiles and joy.

Where the hills became steep enough for sledding, Aragorn was the one to take the lead in instructing his children on the unparalleled joy of the winter's activities. Both fatherhood and kingship had settled well on Aragorn's shoulders – as everything he had once clawed for in life now his to enjoy in peace and prosperity. Glorfindel was proud of the man Estel had become – so far from the eager little boy they had once called Hope, running barefoot through the halls of Elrond. His family had done much to take the grim lines from his face, and while still solemn, there was a smile on Aragorn's face more often than not – especially when in the company of his family and none other.

"Now," Aragorn was explaining in a solemn voice – even Amdiriel braving the snow to listen reverently at her father's side. "This is a most honored and sacred of traditions amongst your mother's people. Since the noon-time of the First Age, when the Elves of Gondolin looked for sport in the cold mountain ways, they have known this art, and perfected it throughout the centuries. You must pay the utmost attention, children, and when the day comes, pass this on, so it may never be forgotten."

Eldarion was nodding gravely, taking in everything his father said as Aragorn pushed him down the hill, and then the little boy was laughing as the wind caught in his hair and the snow burst up in waves of white to cover him. His shrieks of delight startled the birds from the trees, but they too called as if in laughter, catching on the mirth of the family below.

Little Amdiriel did not look at all like the sledding was something she wished to do, but rather than return to Arwen's side, she turned to him, and said most seriously. "Lord Glorfindel, if you would not mind accompanying me, I do believe I should be less afraid if we were to go together."

He scooped the little girl up, and walked to the sled, slowing his step when her fingers were white about the fur lining of his cloak.

"Little one," he said warmly, "It would be my honor."

While Amdiriel's cries turned from fear to laughter on their way down the hill, she was still weak at the knees when they walked back up the slope. Laughing, she fell down in the snow and daintily proclaimed, "A most glorious of traditions it is, but if you would not mind, I would rather build a snowman instead."

**.**

**.**

**Holiday**

Somehow, when he was not looking, time had passed him by.

He felt old in his bones, stretched and worn thin – as if his skin was parchment, covering up the ever-heat of his soul. He was one of the last ones of his kind left on these shores. The Elves of the West had long since returned home, and the children of the forest faded more and more to spirits and legends. Someday, they would be nothing but stories to the sons of Men. Stories and songs.

And he . . .

It was time for him to return home.

Aragorn had laid down his life in death with the last days of autumn. His had been a long life, duly blessed, but it was still a mortal's life, with a mortal's allotment of time, and now he breathed no more. Arwen's grief was great at her husband's passing, but it was as Elrond had foretold all those days ago. Her spirit was still of many years, elven down to her bones, and her grief and pain would have to forcibly push the last breath from her body. There would be no ease of passing for her, no comfort until she found the veils of mortal death, and until then . . . He would follow her, and when her last breath left, he would return West from whence he came, and bow before his Lord, declaring his duty long served and done.

Celeborn and the twins already followed her, and Glorfindel could linger no more. He had to go, he had to follow . . . he had promised her father. He swore an oath to Turgon long ago . . .

"So it is true. You too are leaving us."

Glorfindel looked to the doors of his rooms, to see Tinúviel standing right within. The daughter of Amdiriel's daughter, she appeared older than her sixteen years would seem; older and wiser both. But her grief was great for the loss of her family, and her eyes were red and raw.

So many generations, Glorfindel thought . . . how quickly the sons of Men moved through time, and while he considered himself blessed to have known and loved so many of Aragorn's line, he was also tired . . . so very tired. He did not know how he would be able to watch Amdiriel die. And then her children . . . and her children's children. He was strong enough for many things, but not for that.

And so, he would not stay until then. He would keep to his memory how they were now, until, someday . . .

"Child, you know why I must go," he said gently.

She shook her head, her black hair a halo about her face. "No, I do not," she said simply. "Aragorn lies in death, but his son does not. Eldarion needs you . . . mother needs you . . . _I_ need you. You cannot yet go."

"Eldarion is a strong man, and he will be a strong king," Glorfindel said gently. "He needs nothing from me. And I will miss you as much as you shall me. Believe me when I say that I will keep your memory with me throughout all of my days."

"And that is just the point," Tinúviel said. "You go where we cannot follow. You go West where we can never go . . . Where we will never see you again." Her voice broke at the end, a dry sound of grief.

He placed down the pack he had been putting together, and opened his arms to her. She answered wordlessly, burrowing into his embrace and resting her head against his chest. Her tears warmed the fabric of his tunic. He felt the light of his fëa waver at her pain, and he wondered it he could hold on a little bit longer against the sea-longing deep within him. He wondered . . . but no.

"It is said," Glorfindel whispered gently, "That not even the Wise know where the sons of Men go after death. That only Eru himself knows, and Mandos too. And yet, there are whispers, that beyond the circles of time . . . at the breaking of the world, when it is forged anew, that those of all kindreds will meet again. That there will be a reunion, greater than any other. A gift from the One to his children who have lived so long beneath shadow and darkness."

"That is nothing but silly whispers," Tinúviel said in a small voice. "A child's tale, told to make those with fewer years more at ease with their allotment of time."

"And yet," Glorfindel countered gently. "I do not think so. I have died once before; I now live again. Anything is possible, and I . . . I have forever to wait. Forever to wait and remember you - remember _all _of you."

"All of us?" she whispered brokenly.

"All of you," he said, closing his own eyes against his grief. "No matter how long it takes, I will remember you and keep that memory dear."

"And you . . . you truly believe that?" she asked. Her voice was a small, hopeful thing. "You truly believe that there is a hope . . . beyond time . . . beyond this world's end?"

He drew away just enough to tilt her chin up. He looked, and let her see the light of Aman in his eyes – a memory of the Trees themselves in their days of glory. He knew he carried the light of his spirit on his skin – a final offering of his tired and battered soul to the grieving mortal girl before him. "Yes, child, I do. With all of my heart."

He watched her as she swallowed; as she grasped upon his strength and made it her own. "Then," she said, and her voice was stronger when she spoke. "I shall treat this as a holiday. You go away for a short time, but we shall see you again."

"Sooner than you would think," he forced a smile to his face – one last time, for this daughter of his Lord's blood. "Sooner than a blinking."

"Until then," Tinúviel turned into his embrace, and he returned it. He memorized the shape of her form, the texture of her hair.

"Indeed, dear one," Glorfindel agreed, and his voice was as a promise. "Until then."

. . . until then.

* * *

**Itarillë**: Idril  
**Turukáno**: Turgon  
**Amdiriel & Tinúviel**: Both are names I gave; Amdiriel means 'daughter of hope', and Tinúviel is a throw-back to Lúthien.  
**Glorfindel x2**: Yes! I subscribe to the theory that Glorfindel of Gondolin and Glorfindel of Rivendell are one and the same. He is the perfect embodiment of the Lancelot-ideal this way, and I love this version of his character to pieces.**  
Names in Quenya**: I did not bother translating Glorfindel and Ecthelion's names in the first drabble for fear of butchering the Quenya, but that probably helped reader understanding anyway - so, no harm, no foul. ;)


	11. so there will be no forgetting (Bilbo)

**Author's Notes: **We are dipping into_ Hobbit_ terrictory with this one, folks! On the wings of the last entry, we have more Glorfindel being Glorfindel, and brave little Bilbo later saying what needs to be said. Enjoy. :)

* * *

**"so there will be no forgetting"  
**

**.**

**.**

**Tale**

_Magic_, Gandalf had said when they entered the valley, but Bilbo Baggins was quite certain that the Grey Wizard was mistaken. For _this_ had to be more than even that. Magic was fireworks in the night skies and smoke rings taking the shapes of ships with their elegant sails. Magic was bright lights and midsummers eves' and the crossings in the paths. This that he felt around him? This was _peace_, settling in him soul deep. This was stories made flesh, all the laughter of water and the power music held when it sung of histories true and told, and he . . .

Bilbo was, in a word, quite smitten as he roamed the halls on silent feet while his companions caused a ruckus elsewhere. He touched elegant carvings of vine and stone as he passed, he thumbed throught the pages of ancient tomes even older than he – some were older than the Shire even. And at the realization he had stared, entranced.

Now, he had stopped before a wall, a wall covered in a great mural of a creature, tall and dark, who wore a golden ring on his finger. The small band was a flame in a dark place, blazing with power even when caught in an artist's thrall. Bilbo gazed curiously at the monster with the ring, his own fingers whispering as with a ghost of sensation, even though he himself wore no such adornment.

_Curious_, he thought, and that too he attributed to the magic of the land.

Next to the mural, there was a pedestal, upon which there was a great sword; laying in two massive pieces, its strong blade rent in a jagged line down the middle. Bilbo paused, wondering how mighty the blow must have been to break such a blade – for he could feel an enchantment in the sword before him, an enchantment of hewn earth and the bite of the forge – a sensation he at times felt amongst his companions, though the aura was often fleeting, as a whisper.

He reached out to touch it, when -

"Be careful, Master-hobbit," came a warm voice from the entrance to the room. The voice was a musical voice, one which Bilbo felt in his bones rather than heard in his ears. "Long has Narsil laid broken, but her edges are still sharp to the touch."

"Narsil," Bilbo rolled the name on the back of his tongue, as he would a particularly fine wine. It was, he thought, a fitting name. _Sun and moon, _he knew from his growing grasp on the Elven tongue. Now that he looked for it, he could see the light of both - dully glowing, even when the sword was broken and at rest.

"Narsil, wielded last by Elendil, one of the last sons of the starlit-lands and first King of the Dúnedain," the voice continued, coming closer. "In the First Age, it was forged by the great Dwarf-smith Telchar, at the bidding of his Azaghâl his king. The sword was to be a gift for Maedhros Fëanorian, for he saved the life of Azaghâl when he was waylaid by Orcs on the great Dwarf-road. Maedhros in turn, gave the sword to his brother, and Maglor Fëanorian later gifted the sword in parting to his ward, Elros Tar-Minyatur, the first King of Númenor, and a great leader of Men. The sword has protected that line ever since, and now waits to be forged again – when the hands waiting to hold it are ready to do so."

The names tickled at the back of Bilbo's mind, tugging on stories his mother had told in days long past. He looked up to see who his companion was, and saw a tall elf – no surprise there, Bilbo thought, for they were all quite tall about him. Instead of the dark hair most in the valley had, this elf seemingly wore the sunlight atop his head. Bilbo thought first of the Wood-elves with the shade, but no . . . there was something different about him. Something that was _more_.

The elf's eyes were eerily bright, Bilbo thought. As if he had looked on the sun when standing very near to it, and took a bit of that brilliance with him when he turned away.

"It's a great story," Bilbo said, his fingers still resting above Narsil's blade. Carefully, he did not touch it. A part of him knew that the blade was not his to hold, and the sword welcomed him not. "It seems as if every sword we run into has a great tale behind it." Bilbo let his right hand tap his at the hilt of his own 'sword', ever curious as he was by the elegant little blade.

"Ah," the elf said slowly. "The swords of Gondolin."

"Yes," Bilbo inclined his head. "Glamdring? Your lord named the one. And . . . Orist? Ocrast was the other?"

"Orcrist," the stranger rolled the name from his tongue with the ease of long familiarity. A small smile tugged at his face, sad in shape, and Bilbo wondered at it. "The sword's name was Orcrist."

"Ah, yes," Bilbo bounced on the balls of his feet. "Orcrist - that's the one."

The elf shook his head, bemusement touching his face. "How odd, that they should now appear in a troll horde, of all places. Ah, but to see his face when I tell him so . . ." his voice was absent as he said so, as if he spoke to a ghost in the room. Bilbo knew that the other was far from him in that moment, before he blinked, turning back to Bilbo again. "It is against odds," he said carefully, "but I would ask of a dagger which went with the set. A short blade," he held his hands apart to demonstrate, "who was made as a companion to the swords in their forging."

Bilbo's fingers tapped against the hilt of his sword – which an elf very much would call a dagger, he thought. A long knife . . .

Slowly, carefully, he drew the blade free, and watched as the elf's eyes followed it. There was a flickering in the brightness of his eyes. Bilbo looked, and thought that – for that moment, the elf did not breathe.

"Then it's not a letter opener?" Bilbo said with a half smile as he passed it to the elf's reverent hands.

"Indeed not," the elf answered, bemused.

"Then, does it . . ." Bilbo asked, hoping . . .

"No," the elf shook his head. "It has naught of a name, merely memories. When they named Ecthelion's ridiculous blade for slaying a thousand necks, I had wagered that I could slay more with this dagger alone than he could with his curved sword during the Nírnaeth Arnoediad. I came close, even though he would never admit it. But at the end of that battle, there was no jesting between comrades, nor rejoicing in feast and song. Merely tears."

Bilbo blinked, trying to understand the tenses the elf spoke with. He spoke as if . . .

"Then you knew who owned - " he did he math. He adjusted his words. "Forgive me, _you owned _this blade . . . sometimes it is easy to forget, the agelessness of the Elves."

"Agelessness," the elf turned the word over thoughtfully. He smiled a smile Bilbo could not quite put his finger on. "Yes, you could call it as such."

The elf went to give the blade back, but Bilbo held up a hand. "No," he said. "It was yours, was it not? I would not -"

"It has not been mine for many centuries," the elf said easily. "And swords choose their wielders. This blade will do much in your hands, Master Baggins, and I would not take that away. Even though," he allowed a small smile to touch his mouth, "I do imagine that Ecthelion would have scowled to see his sword in your leader's hands . . . And yet, it is fitting. There is a certain stubbornness about them both, a certain strength of spirit that the sword would answer to."

"Strength of spirit," Bilbo repeated wryly – as if such words could so easily surmise Thorin and his determination. Thorin and his hunger. "And yet . . ." he swallowed. He looked to the west, where he knew the Shire rested in its green cradle of hills and bubbling blue streams. "Sometimes, I do not feel as if I am meant to do such things.

Sometimes, I wonder whether or not I am even meant to be here, or if I had a moment of Took-ishness that I shall forever regret . . ."

The elf too looked west, and the bright light in his gaze seemed to glow then. In a queer way, Bilbo thought that the ancient and ethereal being before him understood his small worries. His unease and fear.

"The Valar choose their vessels wisely," was all he said. "You give yourself too little credit for your path."

Bilbo bit his lip. He took the dagger – his _sword_ – and tried to fight away just how foreign the blade felt in his hands.

The elf noticed, Bilbo thought. He set his jaw thoughtfully as he leaned forward, as if preparing to impart a secret. "You seem to have an ear for stories," the elf said. "If you would, I would tell you a tale now, of a youth who made a very big decision – in the days when there was no light, for the Trees' had been felled and the Sun and Moon had not yet arisen in the sky. A tale of an elf, who wished to serve his kinsman and lord . . ."

.

.

**Telling**

During their first night away from Rivendell, the terrain leveled out enough for them to camp on a small landing in the mountains. Their location was better than some they had spent the night in before, the clearing being both easy enough to defend, and spacious enough so that they did not need to worry for rolling the wrong way in the night to a long and final drop.

With an ease that would have one time shocked him, Bilbo unpacked his place for the night, and then moved to help prepare the evening meal. Used to dining at full tables with food aplenty for the past two weeks, they were not quite ready to part from the fullness of their bellies, and so, Bilbo was elected to make his stew that night – cooking the hares that the youngest two dwarves caught with the ease of long familiarity. If there was anything a Hobbit was adept at, it was preparing supper, he thought. His neighbors would have been scandalized by how thin and . . . rugged, he had become over the trip thus far, he thought, he having gone so long without second breakfast . . . afternoon tea . . . dinner _and_ supper . . .

His stomach rumbled, and that too Bilbo ignored. The wild was no such place for indulgences, and he had learned to do well without a great many things.

With their quest again underway, the company of Thorin was a merry gathering that night. The dwarves sung, Bofur leading them more often than not with his rowdy tunes and creative lyrics - most of which he improvised on the spot before encouraging others to do the same. After Bofur's songs quieted down, Balin took over, telling tales from Erebor in the mountains days of glory. That night, he told a story of the royal family – mischief that Thorin had got into with his siblings Frerin and Dís, when they had journeyed beyond the mountain halls and stumbled upon children from Dale, and the ensuing chaos that day had then caused. Bilbo smiled mightily at the stories, amused to see their infallible leader as something young and curious and very . . . well, _not Thorin_. Afterward, Thorin scowled and asked the elderly dwarf why he delighted in shaming him, but there was fondness in his eyes when he did so.

When Balin's tale was over, and they were scraping the last of their supper from their bowls, Bofur turned to him and asked for his stories. Early on in their quest, his talent with lays and tales had gone noticed, and ever since then they had asked him for tales around the campfire. Bilbo answered readily enough, speaking the same stories his mother had once told him, or giving more fanciable anecdotes from the Shire. Though shenanigans with crops and fields did not interest the dwarves so much, Belladonna Took's tales kept them much interested indeed, and yet, tonight . . .

Each night, while his companions had gone their own ways and kept to their own company, Bilbo had sat in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell, listening to the songs and stories told there. The Elves, with their years and _forever_ before them were careful to forget nothing, to remember all through songs and lyric, and Bilbo had listened to their stories, enraptured. There was one particular song – a song that all would pause to listen to when Lindir would pick up his harp, a solemn respect for the characters within that had touched Bilbo, a story of . . .

He was no minstrel. He had no talent with voice or song, but Bilbo could tell stories. And so he whispered the Lay of Lúthien in a solemn voice fit for the epic deeds of old. He told of Beren the mortal-man, who won the heart of the fairest maiden ever born, and the trials and tribulations of their love. He looked, but instead of seeing the same feeling of enraptured sadness the story had first given him, he saw indifferent faces all. Some even turned down in distaste. Óin pointedly took out his ear piece, and smirked when others snickered at his actions.

It was when he was repeating the words Lúthien sang to Death himself that Bofur got up and took over for him – making light of Lúthien's plight, turning the beautiful words into something of jest and parody. The other dwarves laughed and joined in with the refrain, catching up on the rhythm and turning the tale into a mummer's farce. _A joke._  
When Bofur's lyrics took a turn towards the insinuating, Bilbo stood, insulted for the memory of those the song was supposed to represent.

"For shame!" he exclaimed, jabbing a finger towards the ground and stomping his foot with his pique. "You should all be _ashamed_ of yourselves."

"Oh, sit down Master-Baggins," Bofur was still laughing. He threw the last bit of his bread roll at him – affection, Bilbo knew from his time spent with the Dwarves, and yet he was not appeased. "It was all a bit of fun."

"And a great fun it was," Glóin added, still chortling at the last of the lyrics. "It was the best part of the tale yet."

Bilbo gazed at them, floored. "So, that is the way of it. The Elves remember your ancient tongues when you yourselves have all but forgotten them, and you go to them to read your map. You accept their hospitality - eat their food, steal their trinkets," he rounded on a dwarf who was about to protest. "Oh yes, don't think I didn't notice your _souvenirs_. You wield their weapons as your own, but you cannot acknowledge that there is even the smallest bit of beauty in Lúthien's tale?"

He waited a moment. No one answered.

"That," he said slowly. "Is unfortunate." He fisted his hands at his sides then, so that no one could tell the way they shook. He felt that queasy feeling in his stomach that said that he would soon feel faint, but he pushed it aside. He was going to be _brave_. He let the Took in him speak, and the Baggins in him lay aside.

When Thorin rose to his feet, his clear blue eyes were dark. Bilbo thought about shadow beneath the mountain and the stone womb of the world when seeing the would be Dwarf-king as such, and he squared his jaw at the untouchable strength of the earth itself. "You speak," Thorin said lowly – dangerously, Bilbo knew, "Of that which you do not know."

"Don't I?" Bilbo replied. "You were wronged once before, that I know." He saw eyes of stone around him. "Balin told me the tale, and that I do not try to speak against, or cast aside. I understand your anger; I acknowledge your cause for it. I am simply trying to say that this world would be a better place – a happier place - if you did not assign the blame for a few on the whole. It is a failing, too, that those who wronged you place at your own door, is it not?"

For oh, he _knew_ how Lúthien's kin found their end – her father, the Elven-king of Doriath dead by dwarvish hands for the Silmaril set within its necklace of starlit stones, along with so many others before Beren the One-handed found the dwarves of Nogrod and took from them a payment of blood in kind.

Silence met him. Thorin turned, his jaw a hooked line on his face. "I have lost my taste for tales this eve," and he turned away from him.

"What if," he called after him, even though the Baggins within him was telling him to _sit down_. To sit down, and _be silent_. "What if I told you that I had a story about the sword at your side? The elf who wielded it – he was a bit like you, you know. He died facing a creature of flame so that his people would live. He sacrificed himself for something that he believed in . . . and when I heard it, I thought that that sounded an awful lot like something you would do. If it ever came between the dragon and the lives of your kin . . . I think I know what decision you would make. Swords choose their owners, you know, and that sword chose _you_ for a reason."

For a moment, Thorin stopped. Bilbo thought that he had reached him, that he had _touched_ something, and yet -

Thorin kept his back turned, and took his place at the farthest edge of the clearing. Near to the edge of the mountainside.

And Bilbo sighed through his mouth, frustrated. He ran a hand through his hair, while the Baggins in him asked if he could simply_ sit down now_. _Please_.

Kíli, who had been strangely silent throughout the whole of Bofur's impromptu song and the tense exchange of words that had followed, looked at Bilbo. Slowly . . . he nodded. "I would hear the tale of Uncle's sword, if you would tell it," he said. His voice was at first shaped like a question, but it became stronger at the end. A certainty.

Fíli looked at his brother, and then at Bilbo. Very carefully, he did not look in his uncle's direction. "I would too."

A moment passed, and then: "You had me from the beginning, laddie. Carry on," Balin said gently, and Bilbo saw an understanding in his old eyes . . . a sadness as he glanced at the untouchable set of Thorin's shoulders. The finality in his turned back.

"It went," Bilbo gathered his courage, letting his voice rise so that it would carry. So that _all_ would hear. "Something like this . . ."


End file.
